


remember my love

by bleep0bleep



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Amnesia, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mutual Pining, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 21:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8030110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep
Summary: Stiles wakes up and suddenly the war is over, he's no longer a penniless mage, and living in an exquisite manor married to the man he's been in love with for far too long.   “It’ll be fine,” Stiles says gallantly. “I am certain I will just fall in love with my husband all over again, and I will find plenty of joy doing that.” He winks at Derek for good measure.Derek blinks.





	remember my love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calrissian18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/gifts).



> Endless amount of thanks has to go to [mad-madam-m,](http://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com) who's been reading this from the very beginning and whose love for all things historical helped keep this going. Thank you for your amazing comments and feedback so much. Thank you also to [otter,](http://thewinterotter.tumblr.com) who I could not have written any of the horses without, and for the developmental editing and just being wonderful in general. 
> 
> And of course, HUGE HUGE HUGE thank you [maichan](http://maichan808.tumblr.com) for creating such beautiful art and absolutely capturing every detail of those ridiculous outfits.

 

Stiles wakes with a throbbing headache. He comes to awareness slowly and opens his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. It’s ornate and gilded, and nothing at all like the exposed wooden beams in his quarters at the Mage’s Guild.

Did he have too much ale last night?

Stiles sits up and eyes the luxurious linens in the four poster bed and the richly decorated room. There are hot coals burning in the grate, embers flickering away, and the room is pleasantly warm. He can hear rain sprinkling outside, and gets up to look.

He brushes aside the heavy brocade curtain and touches the window pane— it’s made of actual glass, not just open to the elements. Whoever owns this home is ridiculously rich. Rich enough to afford a home with a view _of_ the Capitol and not live in the noisiest and most crowded city in Kaethur. Across the estate’s generous expanse of green, Stiles can barely see the sloping roof of the Mage’s Guild and the bell tower and the colorful flags of the central market, but he’s a long way from that world right now.

Stiles looks away from the bustling city in the distance and focuses closer, at the immaculate gardens of some well-to-do noble. There’s an ornate fountain, and a neatly laid cobblestone path surrounding it, and in the distance, a long, private road that extends through more greenery and if Stiles is guessing right, an elaborate hedge maze.

 _Where am I?_ Stiles wonders.

The fabric of his nightshirt is soft— too soft. The silk of it feels strange and uncomfortable on his skin. He wonders if this is some elaborate dream, fueled by too many nights staying up late spelling all of Finstock’s fruit to keep from spoiling. Stiles never wants to see another banana again, let alone touch one.

He had moved to the Capitol with big dreams about learning and studying magic, to aid in the war effort against the Mad King Deucalion. The war has been dragging on ever since Stiles could remember, the conflict consuming not just Kaethur but five neighboring countries, trying to stop the tyrant from his power-hungry invasion.

Stiles found soon enough that after graduating from the university he still owed them a fine debt in gold, and that while the Mage’s Guild provides cheap accommodation, he still was only barely making enough doing provincial household spells for local merchants, and his requests to be trained for battle magic have been largely ignored. He’d been delegated to spelling the rations being shipped to troops on the Kaethur-Thayria border, and it’s been hard, grueling work that leaves Stiles drained every night. A strange dream wouldn’t be out of the question.

Stiles turns around, trying to collect his thoughts. The room is richly decorated, but devoid of personal effects. There’s a familiar looking painting of a forest landscape hanging on the wall, but Stiles can’t place where he’s seen it before. He walks toward the doorway, his bare feet cold on the smooth stone floor. There’s an adjoining sitting room, Stiles discovers, also lavishly furnished. The candle on the table is all but a pool of wax, flickering weakly.

And sleeping on a chaise lounge, is Derek Hale.

Lord Derek Hale, the youngest member of the Senate, who Stiles met when the Mage’s Guild declared his new energy renewal potions illegal to market, who voted against Stiles’ appeal and publicly spoke out on it. Hale is widely regarded as the most handsome (Stiles has no argument against that) and most eligible bachelor in the Capitol, but he is quite possibly the most infuriating person Stiles has ever met.

The time Stiles spent trying to get Lord Hale to change his position were the most frustrating and thrilling months of his life— he spent every day arguing with Hale, getting his work challenged and going home and researching more and reworking his potions. By the end of it all, the work Stiles put into improving the potion made it much more effective and also removed the side effect of the energy crash as well.

In that time Stiles learned way more about politics than he wanted to and found that his newest favorite thing was to argue with Lord Hale. He never felt more alive, never found someone whose dry humor he enjoyed teasing so thoroughly. Derek ended up consulting with Stiles about a few new bills on the table in the Senate, and they ended up working together, researching long hours into the night.

Stiles remembers fondly the late nights where he’d look up from his parchment and see Derek, smudges of ink on his cheek. The stubble on his jaw should have made him look unkempt, since it was fashionable in the Capitol now for men to be clean-shaven, but the beard suited Derek, and Stiles had blushed, imagining the feel of it.

Derek had looked up at him and his expression softened, and the slightest of smiles tugged at his lips.

Stiles knew what he felt then, that surge of affection, that could have been the beginning of something new, a courtship perhaps, but he also knew that it was pointless to hope. It wasn’t even proper to pursue a friendship, they were of such different social standing that this strange professional relationship would be all they would ever have.

Derek was sharp and talented and vastly beyond Stiles’ station, with no reason to even cast a second look at Stiles, let alone court a poor newly graduated mage with no land or titles to his name.

At the last masquerade ball to celebrate the beginning of Sol, Stiles only got in only because Scott, a knight in the Queen’s Own, willingly gave Stiles his invitation. Under the guise of a mask, Stiles wined and dined with Derek, danced and even openly flirted with him. It had been glorious, holding Derek’s hand and swaying to the music.

It had been wonderful, and Stiles had long accepted that he would always carry this yearning in his heart.

He has no idea what to do with the fact that Derek is sleeping here, and looks like he’d been sleeping here all night. Like he’d been keeping vigil, perhaps.

A crease of worry is etched on his forehead, chest rising and falling rhythmically. Stiles has never seen Derek like this, sprawled out in his shirtsleeves and breeches and unlaced boots, practically half dressed. His dress shirt is unbuttoned and his cravat is untied. His ornate evening tailcoat hangs from his outstretched hand, the beaded fabric sparkling in the dim morning light, coat rustling on the floor with each breath.

He looks like he was in the process of getting undressed but fell asleep— but why here, on a chaise lounge in _this_ sitting room?

There’s a dusting of glitter on Derek’s face now, as if he’d been wearing a mask last night.

Stiles has danced with Derek at a total of three masquerade balls, and each one his heart swelled with joy and after each one his heart broke a little more, for he knew nothing could ever come of his affections.  

This must be a very, very elaborate dream. It’s not like Stiles hasn’t dreamt about Derek before. Nothing so vivid, though, and Stiles steps a bit closer to marvel at how dark Derek’s lashes are against his cheek.

He trips over a rug and sends a side table clattering to the ground.

Derek startles awake with a gasp. “Stiles!”

 _Stiles,_ not “irreverent know it all” or “cheeky fool” or even Stilinski, or his formal title of Mage Stilinski.

Stiles is so taken aback by the intimate greeting that he is too stunned to move for what happens next.

Derek stands up, rushes to Stiles’ side and _embraces_ him.

Oh, Goddess, if this is surely a dream, then a wonderful and fantastic one it is.

Stiles exhales and wraps his arms around Derek, breathing in the scent of his hair, taking a moment to admire how their bodies fit together. Derek’s arms hold him tight, and Stiles’ mind is reeling.

Derek’s unshaven cheek brushes against his own, and it feels soft, intimate. Domestic.

Derek leans back to look at him, eyes shining. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to him before— close enough to see the myriad of colors in his eyes— gold, green, gray.

“How are you feeling? Last night, I— I was so worried, Stiles. I thought I lost you and then you said you’d sleep it off and you did, you’re wonderful and amazing and I can’t believe you—” Derek trails off, breathless, gazing into Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles’ heart is beating rapidly as Derek pulls him even closer, like he’s going for a kiss.  

A series of polite knocks rap on the door.

Derek coughs and straightens up, stepping back from Stiles, a blush starting in his cheeks.  “Yes, come in.”

The suite door opens, and one— two— three servants in matching livery enter the room, each with greeting them with a cheery, “Good morning, my lord,” to both Derek— and Stiles.  

Stiles watches, bewildered, as one tends to the fire until there’s a merry blaze, another opens all the curtains in both sitting room and bedroom, and another sets down a tray filled with ornate silverware and fine china.

One of the girls, a bright-eyed one with a cheeky smile, bobs her head at Derek. “If I had known my lord wanted to keep watch all night, you should have just—”

“Melinda,” Derek says, eyes widening.

Melinda shrugs. “It’s just the same, my lord, you do know the eastern wing gets terribly drafty. It would have been more comfortable in the main—”

Derek makes a vague, embarrassed gesture at her, and Stiles is rather charmed how well he takes his teasing from his servants. Then again, this is a dream. Somehow his subconscious is implying that he and Derek live here _together_ and last night Stiles’ stay in this guest suite is something of an anomaly.

“Has Master Deaton arrived yet?” Derek asks, attempting to be stern, and failing. He smiles at the servants, rolling his eyes indulgently as the youngest boy struggles to stand still.

Melinda ducks behind the other servant girl and they both giggle, and Derek looks a bit frustrated but amused nonetheless.

“Master Deaton is taking tea in the main dining room,” Melinda says.

“Good, good,” Derek says. “Send him on up.” He glances back at Stiles, giving him a fond look. “Did you sleep well? I know that it was an unusual situation but I couldn’t— I just wanted to be sure you recovered, Stiles.”

Stiles wants to savor the way Derek says his name. It was always either Stilinski, or if Derek was feeling generous, Mage Stilinski.

Derek says _Stiles_ like— like he loves him.

It’s not possible, is it?

An _unusual situation_ — Stiles sleeping in what is obviously a guest room in the lavish Hale manor, recovering from some magical injury that— that Derek didn’t want to aggravate because maybe they _normally sleep in the same bed?_ The servants treating Stiles like the head of the household as well—

“I slept well—” and Stiles takes an impulsive risk here, because he’s never, not even in his dreams, called Derek by his name and not his title— “Derek.”

Derek smiles at that, affection written all over his face, and Stiles’ heart bursts into happiness.

“The rain has stopped,” Derek says suddenly. “I thought we might go riding after breakfast.”

Stiles nods, wondering if this is normal, for his dream self— eat breakfast and go for long romantic rides in the countryside with his beloved. He’s imagined it before, but never in so much detail. He’s only been so bold, even in the most hidden and darkest desires of his mind, to imagine stolen kisses in furtive spaces, a quick and scandalous affair, not this soft, domestic happiness.

He didn’t even dare to think it, not when it couldn’t be possible.

Derek smiles at him. “Deaton will be here in a moment. I know you said you would be fine, but please, an examination would give me peace of mind. You gave us all quite a scare, you know. Please don’t harangue him too much. I know you’re not his student anymore, and you have good reason to be proud of your many accomplishments, but the man still cares for your well-being.”

Stiles has no idea what to say to this, so he just nods again.

Derek takes his hand, his bare fingers warm and soft against Stiles’ skin. Stiles is barely breathing, thinking about the way Derek is touching him, skin to skin, and for all that he’s been insisting that this has been a dream since he woke up, the warmth of the touch is very real.

Derek raises his hand to his lips and presses a soft gentle kiss there, and looks up at Stiles, eyes shining with affection. “I am going to get dressed, and will return shortly.”

And then he sweeps out the door, leaving Stiles alone with the servants.  

They’re all standing in a row at attention, the two young women, girls really, and the one boy, in their matching bright blue jackets and cream-colored dresses and pants, looking curiously at him.

Stiles has no idea what to do, so he peeks under the lid of the pitchers on the tray and smells each of its contents. Rich, strong coffee, and cream, and real sugar, not that powdered corn substitute spelled to mimic the sweetness and consistency of the actual import that only grows in the south. Stiles hates the stuff, but he can’t afford another way to take his coffee.

This is… a very intricate dream, he decides.

He pours himself a cup with cream and three spoonfuls of sugar.

The boy in the front, young with a cherubic face, smiles and starts reciting. “Today is the twenty-fifth of Sol, in the year 1510 of her Goddess, and weathermages predict that our current rainfall will last us through the end of Sol and through Farthing. Queen Lydia has issued a kingdom-wide holiday this week in celebration of King John of Thayria’s visit. Festivities to recognize the first anniversary of the peace treaty continue with—”

“Wait, stop. _Peace_ treaty— what year did you say again?”

“1510. The morning’s edition of the _Capitol Daily_ has not arrived yet, but I could rush down to the printers and get you a copy.”

Stiles shakes his head. “That’s fine, just um, go about your day. Er, dismissed.”

They all bow again, and the girl at the end stares at Stiles longer than appropriate, a blush high on her cheeks before she pulls on Melinda’s hand and starts giggling as the three leave the room.

1510\. Somehow in five years the Five Kingdoms War is over, and the hermit king from the little desert kingdom to the south has actually left his palace. The last Stiles heard, the Thayria palace was the center of a siege that lasted more than ten years. Deucalion had been set on seizing power there. He’d killed all the royal family but the king, who had been locked to safety in a magical shield by a powerful unknown mage. The standoff had been legendary; Stiles had even studied the intricate working of the legendary spell when he was at university.

And now there is peace.

Did he time travel? It’s extremely expensive and highly unpredictable, and time travel only allows the user to observe, not interact with their environment. He was clearly having a conversation just now, so that can’t be it. And why would Stiles want to travel forward for a glimpse of a possible future?

There’s a crest carved into the headstone of the bed here, and Stiles recognizes it now. The symbol on the servants’ livery is embroidered delicately to be subtle, unlike other lords and ladies who seem to emblazon everyone in their household with their mark. It’s the triskelion, the symbol of the Hale holdings. This _is_ Hale Manor.

Derek’s home.

And Stiles is— ?

He drinks the coffee, just to make sure this isn’t a time travel glimpse, because it definitely isn’t a dream, because the rich flavor of the coffee is vibrant on his tongue, strong and sweet with expensive rare sugar.

It’s good coffee.

So. Not a dream. Stiles paces back and forth, trying to take stock of the situation. The last thing he remembers is pulling a ridiculously long shift spelling rations for the war effort, and then going to bed in his quarters at the Mage’s Guild. In 1505.

He walks back to the bedroom, sitting on the bed. It’s soft, stuffed with down, and probably costs more than Stiles’ yearly income.

And then there’s the matter of Derek.

Derek, who calls him Stiles and kisses his hand like he’s _his,_ holds him like he loves him.

A memory spell, that ought to do it. Whatever injury Stiles sustained yesterday— in Derek’s yesterday— must have caused this lapse. Stiles stretches, concentrating, the words on the tip of his tongue, but when he reaches for the well of power inside him, Stiles falters, finding it empty.

He’s all tapped out.

Suddenly Stiles feels vulnerable and defenseless. The last time he used all his power in one go was when he and Scott were twelve, and Scott had stopped breathing. Untrained in magic, Stiles had used his raw power to hold off the physical symptoms until help came, and the two of them both had to be pulled back from the brink of death. Stiles has learned much better control since then, and wonders what could have happened to make him so reckless with his magic. It’ll take months before he can even do simple spells again, _why?_

There’s a knocking at the door again.

“Yes." Stiles' head is full of questions.

The door creaks open, and here's a familiar face. “Master Deaton,” Stiles says, nodding.

Deaton is exactly as Stiles remembers him— stern, and more than bit vague in his statements. He’s on the Queen's Council, a senior member of the Mage’s Guild and a professor at the local university...and apparently also no longer Stiles’ mentor, as he snorts when Stiles greets him with his title.

“You’re almost a master in your own right, you know," Deaton says. "Perhaps a bit too foolhardy to be certified at the moment, but soon enough.”

Stiles laughs, sitting still for Deaton’s examination spell. It takes some time for Deaton to build up the spell and it tickles, laying there as the magic prickles through him, gently probing.

Stiles is wondering how best to bring up the memory loss, but Deaton has his face scrunched up in concentration. Best to wait until the examination is over.

Derek returns, dressed for the day now in a deep cerulean double breasted tailcoat with a silver brocade and a floral patterned collar that offsets his cream shirt, beige cravat, and tan breeches. He looks stunning, even while pacing back and forth in the room, occasionally looking over at them in concern.

Deaton waves his hand and the soft glow of light recedes from Stiles’ body. “Better than I expected. You’ve nearly depleted your natural reserves of magic, but it looks like you’re on the mend already. You should expect to be back at full power within a fortnight. Don’t do this again, Stilinski. Gave us all quite a scare, you did. I expect I’ll be having an angry letter from McCall once he hears of this on the borders, what I was thinking, letting you graduate.” His tone is exasperated but fond.

Finally, it’s done. “What did I do exactly? I just woke up and I don’t— I don’t remember anything.”

Deaton narrows his eyes in concern.

Derek steps forward, alarmed. “Nothing? Of last night, or...?”

Stiles answers question after question from Deaton, and with each answer Derek looks more and more pained. Stiles still thinks he’s a barely-employed mage, but apparently he’s quite accomplished now, according to Deaton. Deaton doesn’t offer any details on why Stiles is living at Hale Manor with Derek, but it would be improper to suggest it, especially if Stiles is a noble now.

Derek frowns, his face lined with tension, and he keeps twitching, like he wants to move to Stiles’ side as he answers Deaton’s questions.

Finally Deaton sighs. “You see, this is why we don’t use our magic impulsively. There are always unforeseen consequences.”

It’s clear that this memory lapse is going to be an obstacle in their relationship— if it were Derek, Stiles would feel incredibly hurt if he didn’t remember their relationship either. Their entire courtship, all gone in a magical accident. But what had happened?

“You saved my life,” Derek blurts out, eyes shining with emotion. “It’s my fault you’re injured. It was—”

“Worth it,” Stiles says without hesitation.

Deaton recounts the details. At the ball they were attending last night, there was an assassination attempt on Derek’s life. A unique and fast-acting poison in Derek’s wine was already reaching to stop his heart, when Stiles had taken action, drawing the poison into himself and neutralizing it with his own power.

“I’ve seen this particular draught used before,” Deaton says. “With the antidote, most patients experienced various side effects— nausea, headaches, significant memory loss. Since no one has ever neutralized it this way and survived, I have no way of knowing what the long-term effects for you will be. I’m sorry. This memory loss may be permanent.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, in a small voice.

“Five years isn’t so bad,” Deaton says. “And none of them your university years, you should consider yourself lucky. You’re a strapping young man with a quick mind, you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

“There’s nothing you can do for him?” Derek says, aghast.

Deaton shakes his head. “The mind is a delicate place, Lord Hale. Especially with healing. It’s possible that he will remember in time, but at this point it is all I can do to avoid any additional trauma.”

It should be terrifying, being told that Stiles might not ever remember those five years. But he looks at Derek, and understands immediately what he was thinking and why he did something so risky in the first place. Losing his magic for a few months is but a small cost. Inconvenient, but… acceptable. The memory thing is frustrating, but there’s a small part of Stiles that’s relieved that he didn’t have to live through the entire War, that he’s settled now, almost a master mage, and married to the man he loves.

“It’ll be fine,” Stiles says gallantly. “I am certain I will just fall in love with my husband all over again, and I will find plenty of joy doing that.” He winks at Derek for good measure.

Derek blinks.

Deaton coughs. “Lord Hale, if I may a moment?”

“Of course, Master Deaton.” Derek glances at Stiles once more. “I’ll have Jacob bring you your day’s clothes, and breakfast will be served soon in the dining room if you care to join us.”

Stiles watches them leave, talking in hushed voices, and the voices continue out in the hallway. He can’t make out what they’re saying, just Derek talking at a quick, worried pace.

Some new affection blooms inside him; Stiles has loved Derek for so long but this is different and new and exciting, Derek caring about him in return.

Stiles has just stretched back to relax in the bed when the door knocks again. The boy with the cherubic face— Jacob — has returned, his arms full of clothes.

“Here you are,” Jacob says cheerfully. “Lord Hale has often mentioned how fetching he finds you are in red, so I thought these might suit you today.”

He hands Stiles a lovely red tailcoat with a golden brocade detail, silk waistcoat, a freshly pressed dress shirt still hot from the iron, a matching cravat, and a pair of cream colored breeches. There are linen socks and underclothes, and a pair of smart-looking riding boots to complete the outfit.

 

Stiles stares; he’s never even thought about wearing anything so fine, let alone owning them.

Jacob helps him gets dressed, and Stiles glances at himself in the mirror, stunned at his reflection. Jacob whistles appreciatively and Stiles has to bite back a laugh— the boy is barely a teenager.

“Sorry, not my place,” Jacob says apologetically. “But I do believe it will be appreciated, if it’s not too bold.”

Stiles laughs. “Thank you. Could you lead me to the dining room, please?”

Jacob nods and Stiles follows him out into the hallway, a bright airy place decorated with a series of lovely paintings, and down a gilded stairway into a large sitting room, where Derek meets them.

“Thank you, Jacob, I can take it from here. Miss Beatrice has an announcement for all the servants in the west wing, if you can hurry along.”

“Of course, my lord,” Jacob says, dashing off.

Derek coughs, straightening his cravat. He offers Stiles his arm. “To breakfast, my dear?”

Stiles stares at the arm before laughing. “My _dear._ Do you really call me that?” He grins at Derek and takes the arm anyway, walking companionably with him.

Derek makes a face. “No, I just thought— never mind. I just call you my— my—” he falters a little, then recovers. “My Stiles.”

Stiles flushes. He likes the sound of that. “Do I call you my Derek, then? Do you like it?”

The tips of Derek’s ears are red. “Yes, I do.”

Breakfast is fantastic— Derek must be trying to spoil Stiles today, because the platters from the kitchen seem never ending— freshly baked bread with butter and jam, rashers of bacon, fried eggs and fresh fruit.

Stiles picks a spiraled Thayria roll from the bread platter, bringing it to his nose and breathing deeply.

A memory springs to his head, and at first Stiles wonders if it’s from those five years he’s lost, and then he’s confused. It’s from a child’s perspective, waiting patiently at a table, tugging on a expensive beaded dress that’s glinting in the sunlight before he’s given a fresh spiraled roll.

That’s strange. Must be just some fanciful imagining, because it surely isn’t from Stiles’ childhood. He and his mother were from an incredibly poor village in southern Kaethur, no one in Stiles’ childhood could have ever worn a dress like that.

His stomach growls and he shrugs off the vision, diving right into the food.

Stiles is already on his second serving before he remembers table manners, and looks up sheepishly and dabs at his chin with a napkin.

One of the servants, a kindly old lady who Derek had addressed as Beatrice earlier, looks amused at Stiles’ approach to his food.

Stiles picks up his knife and delicately spreads jam on a piece of bread, wondering if she’s having vivid flashbacks to when Stiles first moved in with Derek. Maybe they’re still newlyweds, judging by her still-shocked reaction to Stiles’ eating habits. Or maybe Stiles practiced proper etiquette right away.

“Tell me, Derek,” Stiles says, a joyous thrill running down his spine at using his name. “When did we start courting? Did you approach me or did I…”

Derek coughs, staring at his plate. “I understand this must be very surprising to you,” he says.

“Yes and no.” Stiles grins at him. “I mean, I’m surprised that we actually courted and got married, but I was under the impression that I would carry my feelings to the grave.”

“Your… feelings?”

Stiles flushes. Derek must be teasing him, clearly enjoying seeing how besotted Stiles was with Derek even before they even courted. “You know fully well, _husband.”_ Stiles plucks a strawberry from a platter and bites into it, sucking the sweet juices from the fruit with relish. “I mean, if my memory lapse had gone back ten years and not five, I might have hated you then. Or well, pretended to hate you— I was very aggravated that you shot down any chance of marketing my potion but I was probably more angry at how attractive I found you, especially when we argued.”

Derek is staring at him, mouth falling open a little. “And when did these feelings of— pretending to hate me— turn into something else?”

Stiles takes a bite of toast. “I grew to care for you quite a lot as we worked on researching magical support systems together and writing the proper bill to get them to the knights on the border. We were allies, if not friends at the least. I understand it would have been extremely improper for me to— if I were to request to call on you with the intent of courtship, given my lowly station of birth. I thought the most I could dare to wish for was to dance anonymously with you at a masquerade ball or two.”

Derek smiles. “I always knew it was you, Stiles. That’s why I danced with you.”

“What? I thought you were just charmed by my alter ego, Lord Whimsy of Whimsington!”

Derek snorts. “Stiles— I didn’t want to dance with anyone else. You were there, and you asked me— I thought—” he huffs, lost in the memory. “I can still see the moles on your cheek, even with the mask. I always know when it’s you.”

“Oh.”

Melinda sets down another tray of freshly baked bread, giggling before she returns to the kitchen.

Stiles picks up another a piece of bread and starts spreading jam on it, distracted with thoughts of Derek wanting to dance with him— not _despite_ who he was, but because of it. He takes a bite, thinking of what to ask Derek next.

“You’ve got a little something,” Derek says.

“Huh? Where?” Stiles wipes at his face with the napkin.

Derek chuckles and gets out of his seat, crossing over to Stiles. He reaches out and wipes Stiles’ cheek with this thumb, and then to Stiles’ surprise, licks at the bit of jam on his finger. “Sweet. Like you,” Derek says, almost shyly.

“Maybe you should refresh your memory,” Stiles says hopefully, licking his lips.

Derek looks momentarily stunned. “My lord,” he says after a long moment, taking Stiles’ hand and kissing it softly.

His lips are warm, and Stiles can’t help the thrill of excitement that runs through him.

Derek looks up to meet his eyes, and for a moment Stiles thinks that he might—

There’s giggling from the background.

Derek sets down his hand hastily, looking at the trio of servants lingering in the dining room.

Beatrice steps forward. “Terribly sorry, but the horses are not ready yet. But I thought perhaps a stroll in the gardens, beforehand? It's stopped raining. I took the liberty of fetching the keys to the greenhouse for you,” she says, winking at Derek.

“Thank you, Beatrice,” Derek says.

Stiles can still feel the press of his kiss seeping into his skin.

 

* * *

 

The gardens are lovely; Stiles has never been here before, at least in the time before he lost his memory. He’s sure as he’s lived in this house he’s spent a copious amount of time here, exploring every nook and marveling at every new bud and bloom in the gardens. They’re meticulously maintained, and not just by the servants, Stiles notices. There’s a well-used set of tools in the shed that Derek seems abruptly familiar with; he even picks up a pair of shears and a watering can, nipping away as they walk.

“It’s a neverending hobby, but I love it,” Derek says.

He looks good like this, holding a pair of shears, in his garden, dirt smudged on his nose. Happy.

And Stiles is too, he realizes.

The sun is just starting to come out, lighting up the drops of rain in the leaves. The earth smells alive and rich with the fresh rain, and Stiles can feel the the plants’ magic singing to him, all green and alive and merry, a chorus of happy excitement, all of them reaching for the sun and drinking in the morning’s rain.

“Do I have a plot here?” Stiles wonders curiously. He has a plot in the communal garden at the Mage’s Guild, or well, he did five years ago. It had been a cramped space where Stiles struggled to grow his herbs and crops for his potions next to novices who never weeded their plots and let the scragglers invade his, and he had to constantly fight with Matt, who grew stalks of wildcorn so tall they hardly left Stiles any sun at all.

Bay leaf, or maybe that strain of chocolate mint… sage, lavender… Stiles sighs dreamily, thinking of all the herbs he’s tried (and failed) to start from seed because of the terrible conditions at the Guild.

“You can have as much space as you like,” Derek says earnestly. “Please grow whatever you wish. I have more than enough land than to know what to do with all of it, and you— you’re welcome to it.”

“Have we not been married long, then? I was guessing at breakfast, because I wasn’t sure, since I think I offended Miss Beatrice with my table manners, or likely, she was offended by how I’ve regressed since moving here.”

“We’ve not been together a fortnight, yet.”

“Oh, so we _are_ newlyweds,” Stiles says. He has no idea why this delights him so much, and he steps forward, emboldened with the idea that they’re still possibly at the stage where they can’t keep their hands off each other. He takes the shears from Derek and sets them down on a bench and steps closer, until his leg is pressed between Derek’s thighs. It’s incredibly inappropriate, beyond even what Stiles has imagined doing in his fantasy about courting Derek, but they’re _married._

So perhaps very appropriate, considering what Derek must be used to.

“Stiles,” Derek exhales, his eyes widening. They’re pressed together for a long, thrilling moment where Stiles swears he can hear Derek’s heart pounding.

Stiles reaches out to stroke Derek’s chin, intending draw them together for a kiss. It might be _his_ first kiss with Derek, but Stiles knows himself well enough that he’d kiss Derek everyday of their married life, just because he could.

Derek breathes in sharply, pupils blown so wide Stiles can barely see the light color of the iris. He’s mesmerized by the fluttering of Derek’s eyelashes, the blush in his cheeks. It’s a good feeling, to know that he can still affect his husband so.

Derek steps to the side, sliding out of the embrace with an embarrassed cough. He pulls a pair of keys out of his pocket, jangling it noisily.  “I— do you want to see the greenhouse?”

Stiles is a little disappointed, but he can see Derek’s pink cheeks and the way Derek keeps eyeing his mouth. Maybe Derek wants to kiss him too, but is… shy.

The idea is adorable. The greenhouse isn’t exactly public, but theoretically a servant could come barging in at any time. Maybe Stiles was a little too forward, a little too intimate. He chides himself— he would have learned, the Stiles of this time, all of Derek’s preferences and when the perfect time for kisses was.

Stiles is determined to learn again.

In the meantime, the greenhouses are a great idea. “Yes,” Stiles says excitedly.

He lets Derek lead the way, and on impulse takes Derek’s hand in his own, interlacing their fingers together and watching the way the blush on Derek’s face travels down his neck and disappears under his collar. “I like making you blush,” Stiles blurts out.

“You’re good at it,” Derek says with a sheepish smile.

The greenhouse is terribly exciting. They’re expensive to build and difficult to maintain, an entire building made out of glass just to grow more temperate crops. There’s an argument where it’s actually cheaper than to employ mages to constantly spell the air around a plot of land to mimic another climate, but many Capitol dwellers are eager to pay for a quick fix, rather than long term solutions, to grow the crops they need to perform the city’s needed magic.

Derek’s greenhouse is large and well cared for, filled with the quiet rustling of trees and flowers and crops that are all at once familiar to Stiles. They’re from the South, too delicate to grow this far north in the Capitol, and it smells like home. He follows Derek though the greenhouse, fascinated, reaching out to touch a leaf here or smell a flower there.

Stiles wonders if he had made any plans with Derek in the present time to do any of his spellwork here; some of these trees alone could be incredibly powerful—

Wait, that can’t be.

“Derek, is this a Thayria lily?” Stiles says, staring at disbelief. He’d almost missed it, but there is one bud just starting to open amidst the expanse of green needles, and he reaches out to touch it reverently. They’re a rare succulent from Thayria, the small desert country just south of Kaethur. The lilies are difficult to grow even in the South. His mother had tended to them carefully and was able to teach him the many healing uses of the nectar before she died. They always remind him of her and how she inspired him to follow his heart to study magic. Stiles has tried and tried again to grow them in his Guild plot, but had never been able to succeed.

“Yes,” Derek says, somewhat nervously. “You told me once that they were your mother’s favorite, and I… I wanted to grow them. For you.”

Stiles is stunned, unable to describe how overwhelmed he is right now. He steps forward and throws his arms around Derek, hugging him tightly. He can’t trust himself to talk right now, just buries his face in Derek’s neck, trembling with emotion.

“It took me the better part of two years,” Derek admits. “I’ve been trying for awhile now. The seedlings had to be watered every three hours, and they won’t take to any sort of spelled soil, so I weeded this all by hand and used organic—”

Stiles makes a muffled noise that could be a sob, and he pulls back, wiping at his face. “I love you,” he declares. “You know that, right?”

“I love you too, Stiles.” Somehow Derek looks sad as he says it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Derek pulls away. “Do you want to see the rest of the succulents?”

“Is it because I don’t remember our courtship? That I might not ever?” Stiles catches Derek by the shoulder. “I’m sorry that it happened, but like Deaton said, it’s just a few years, I’ll catch up in no time, Derek. I’ll be the same husband you remember, I promise.”

Derek nods, but they don’t speak much as he shows Stiles the rest of the greenhouse. The rest of the walk is subdued, but no less beautiful, and Derek offers Stiles his arm again when they stroll through the gardens.

Stiles has counted three different fountains and they haven’t even gone into the decorative hedge maze yet. He’s mentally debating whether he should say something suggestive to Derek and if that would lighten the mood or make it worse when Jacob walks toward them, leading a pair of well-groomed and attractive horses.

Stiles knows the one on the right; Derek’s powerful, fine-boned black mare, and she recognizes Stiles as they approach, whuffs at him in greeting. Stiles steps up to her, remembering the first time he saw Derek riding out the town square, cutting a gorgeous silhouette with his coat billowing out behind him.

“Orliane,” Stiles says, remembering once when he saw Derek speaking to his mare, whispering soft words of encouragement to her, patting her neck. It had been right after Derek had Stiles thrown out of the Senate for his “sham of a potion” and Stiles had stalked after him in the courtyard, furious, ready to give Derek a piece of his mind. And then Derek had whistled, and Orliane had just trotted up to him, this fierce, huge horse immediately turned playful and affectionate.

Stiles had been terrified of her at first, as most people were. Dark as midnight, gleaming black eyes, and a fierce temper, but she always waited patiently for Derek in the courtyard outside the Senate. Stiles would linger after their research sessions often, not wanting the evening to end. The first time was an accident; Derek had been waylaid by another Senator, and Stiles still wanted to talk to him, enjoy that ten minute walk from the courtyard to the town square where Derek would then ride off towards his estate and Stiles would walk back to the Guild. So he waited, taking the apple in his pocket he saved from breakfast and biting into it, savoring the juice.

Orliane nosed at his shoulder, and Stiles nearly fell over in surprise but offered her the apple. She took it eagerly, and even listened to Stiles rant about Derek’s perfect hair that day, and let Stiles scratch her mane.

It didn’t take long for Stiles to strike up a friendship with the horse. She’s as tall as Stiles remembers, and she snorts appreciatively now as Stiles softly strokes her nose, and then lips playfully at his fingers, searching for a treat. Stiles chuckles and scratches under her mane, admiring her glossy black coat. She’s a gorgeous beauty with dark, intelligent eyes. Stiles grins, admiring the way she carries her strength; it’s fashionable nowadays in the Capitol for gentlemen to ride stallions, but Derek’s never been one for convention, at least where it mattered.

Stiles gets nudged aside as Orliane notices Derek behind him, and she steps forward eagerly. Stiles laughs, stepping to the side so she can greet Derek properly.

Orliane bumps her nose into Derek’s chest, and Derek runs his hands through her mane, eyes soft and warm with affection. He places a soft kiss on her forehead, patting her and whispering in her ear. Stiles feels a bit jealous; he’s loved horses all his life, never could afford to keep one.

“My lord,” Jacob says, stepping forward with the other horse.

“And hello,” Stiles says softly, awed.

The second horse is another tall mare, gorgeous and regal. She regards Stiles with interest, but she doesn’t move, just patiently stands there, an absolute vision. Stiles can’t help but stare— he thought at first she might have been, and now he thinks he’s right, looking her in the eyes and confirming the shape of her nose, the ethereal shimmer of her coat, she’s a Thayrian Warmblood. Her champagne gold coat shines in the sun, and Stiles knows looking into her eyes that he’s found a friend.

Thayrian Warmbloods are renowned for being stoic and calm, even through battle. While not originally bred for war, their temperament was uniquely prized by mages as they would never spook while casting a spell. Trained right, a Warmblood would be loyal to a mage to the very end, and these horses were expensive and difficult to come by, but worth their weight in gold. During the casting of a spell, mages are especially vulnerable; during the Five Kingdoms War over half their country’s mages were ambushed and killed in the middle of an intricate casting. A battalion of mages all riding Warmbloods would be almost unstoppable.

Jacob hands Stiles the lead. “Here you are, my lord,” he says with a bow, taking a few steps back and leaving Stiles with the most beautiful horse he’s ever seen.

“What’s her name?” Stiles asks, breathless.

Jacob glances to Derek, who stops petting Orliane to give Stiles a fond look.

“Is she… mine?” Stiles asks, hoping fervently so.

“Yes, absolutely, she’s yours,” Derek says quickly. “What… what do you think her name is?”

“I didn’t name her when you gave her to me?” Stiles wonders, and then he laughs. “Oh, you want me to guess.” He’s correct, judging from the delightful way Derek ducks his head a little in embarrassment.

“Joy,” Stiles says, carding his hands through the horse’s mane, thinking of how he must have felt when Derek gave him this gift. “I would name her Joy.” He flushes, looking up at Derek. “Because my husband knows me well, took so much thought into what kind of horse would suit my temperament and my abilities. I love her, Derek. I… was she a…”

“Wedding gift,” Derek says. “You haven’t been training her long.”

Stiles’ nods. He must have been busy, the way Joy is sniffing him curiously, like she’s never met him before.

“Ready?” Derek asks, and Stiles thinks he’d be ready for anything.

They mount the horses, and ride off into the fields. Joy is like a dream, responding to Stiles’ every nudge, playfully cantering next to Orliane like they’re old friends. Stiles laughs; he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this free.

He glances over at Derek, who gives him a warm, unguarded smile. He looks so different here, so unfettered from his responsibilities to the Senate and the stiff, formal guise he wears at the balls.

“This is the best horse in the world,” Stiles says with delight. “Derek, I’ll race you to the gate!”

Joy gallops off at his direction, her long mane flowing in the wind. The air is cool and crisp and Stiles is flying, going so fast he can hardly believe it. Derek is on his heels, laughing as he follows behind them, urging Orliane on.

Stiles wins, making it to the gate in mere minutes, and slows to a halt, turning around to watch Derek approach him. He pats Joy’s neck and whispers how proud he is, how much he loves her already, and Derek is beaming at him, the picture of contentment.

“What do I win?” Stiles teases.

Derek chuckles. “I’ll show you. Follow me.”

They ride across Derek’s estate— Stiles’ estate too, he supposes, wondering how much of these vast fields he’s explored, if that field of wildflowers in the distance has a spectacular view of the mountains and valleys beyond.

Derek leads him right to the sweet-smelling field, scents of honeysuckle and rosaline thick in the air.

They dismount and let the horses graze, and the wildflowers that seem to go on forever. Derek unpacks a picnic basket; cheese and cured meat and rich bread studded with nuts and raisins and bottles of sparkling wine and fruit all get spread out on a colorful linen. The sun is shining and Derek has unbuttoned his coat and loosened his cravat.

Stiles’ throat goes dry at the sight of exposed skin, the faintest glimpse of hair on Derek’s chest.

Not to be outdone, Stiles removes his coat as well, but gets flummoxed with all the buttons and ends up removing his cravat and waistcoat, leaving him in nothing but a half-buttoned dress shirt and his breeches. He feels kind of smug, the way Derek cannot seem to look away. The shirt is thin, and the wind is starting to pick up; perhaps Stiles should put his waistcoat back on, but he’s holding out that Derek might want to warm him up, and not by offering his coat.

They eat the most luxurious meal Stiles has ever had in his memory; feeding each other decadent bites from each other's hands. Derek feeds Stiles grapes and blushes when Stiles licks his fingers, and Stiles never wants to forget it. The wine is sweet, no matter how many times Derek laughs and tells him it’s not wine, just sparkling lemonade. Stiles just drinks more of it, enjoying the smile on Derek’s face as Stiles teases him. Stiles thinks he must be just lightheaded with love and happiness.

He tells Derek as much, and then there’s that little sad smile again.

“My lord,” Stiles says with a frown, reaching for Derek by the shirt. There’s a part of him that is scandalized at how shameless he is, practically undressed and lying in this field with another man, holding his shirt and pulling him closer. If this were a proper courtship— the stroll through the gardens, the horseback ride, the picnic by the lake— it would all be done with a chaperone.

But Stiles is married, and he can kiss this sad smile off his husband’s face if he wants to. “My lord,” he says again, the words feeling strange on his lips. “My Derek,” Stiles says, soft and sincere.

Derek’s lips part, and he leans, closes his eyes— and turns away, exhaling at the last moment. “I am sorry,” he says, face heavy with regret as he pulls away.

Derek stands up, leaving Stiles laying there confused on the picnic blanket, watching Derek pace back and forth among the flowers, a furrow of worry in his face.  

“Derek?” Stiles asks in concern. “Do you not— want me to kiss you?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, taking in a deep breath. He looks distraught, so the answer is very clearly, no.

“Is it because I don’t remember… us?” Stiles ventures. “I’m so sorry, I just— I know it must be strange for you, suddenly your husband is the man you knew five years ago, but trust me, I still am in love with you, very much so, and we can court all over again. It could be fun.”

“It’s not that,” Derek says, like the words cause him pain. “It wouldn’t be… oh, Stiles. I can’t hurt you like this.”

“Is it because of my injury? You heard Master Deaton, I’m very well on the way to recovery. And I hardly think kissing counts as strenuous activity to avoid while healing.” Stiles gives Derek a hopeful look and stands up, reaching for his hand.

Derek flexes his fingers but he doesn’t take it, glancing at Stiles, guilt written all over his face. “You would not want to kiss me once you know.”

“Derek?”

Derek takes a deep breath, reaches for his cravat like he wants to retie it.

“Please, what is it?” Stiles says. He doesn’t want Derek to go back to the stiff, uptight Senator he first met, to fall back into that buttoned-up gentleman’s guise.

“Stiles— Mage Stilinski. I greatly do apologize. This— this farce has gone on long enough, and it pains me enough that I— that you— for a few hours have had to—” Derek shakes himself here, and rebuttons his coat, like he’s finding his resolve. “I am sorry.”

“But what for?” Stiles is incredibly alarmed by the word _farce_ and most of all, the way Derek is calling him by his formal title again.

“We aren’t married,” Derek admits. “We even aren’t courting, we are… we are barely friends. It is, very much like you said. Allies who work together, and argue too much. I apologize for leading you on so. Master Deaton insisted that when you came to the conclusion that we were married that it would cause you a great deal of trauma to discover that we weren’t. I thought if part of the healing process was for you to think we were married, then it would only help the healing that we should continue to appear to be so. Until you were better.”

“So when your servants addressed me as their lord this morning…”

“If they did so before breakfast it was of their own doing. I speak of you often in this house, and last night you were a guest here. They know you are a mage and that you were a guest at the King’s Ball last night, and must have assumed your title as well.” Derek stares at his hands. “After I spoke with Master Deaton I informed the household servants of the nature of your injury and to address you as if you were my husband.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, he feels numb with shock. The bubble of elated happiness and joy that’s been growing all morning bursts, and he’s left with nothing but a cold, horrified feeling.

Oh Goddess, he’s told Derek he _loves_ him.

And he’s acted so— scandalously. Stiles sits up, clutching at his shirt, hastily rebuttoning it.

Derek’s seen his _nipples._

“I— Der— Lord Hale,” Stiles corrects himself. He grabs his coat and realizes this can’t be his, he couldn’t even afford the embroidered trim on the damn thing. Stiles is torn between not wanting to wear Derek’s borrowed clothes— his _charity,_ oh Goddess, he must be just feeling obligated to take care of Stiles after that incident— and also wanting to cover up. The shirt he’s wearing is thin, and it’s chilly out still, and oh, the town crier would have a field day if they knew Stiles and Derek were out here alone in this romantic setup without a chaperone, and Stiles practically naked. He can hear the headline now— “Penniless Mage Attempts to Seduce Capitol Lord WIth His Nipples!”

He settles for clutching the coat to his chest. At least his nipples are covered. He’s not going to put it on, though.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, softly. He sounds sincere. Of course he’s sorry, he’s just been subjected to all of Stiles’ _feelings_ all at once. He must think Stiles such a fool, indulging this… _farce,_ as he called it, for so long, and with the horseback rides and the romantic picnic and everything.

“I have to go,” Stiles says, feeling the onsets of a panic starting to come on. He stands up hastily.

Joy nudges him in interest and like she’s been patiently waiting for Stiles to saddle up, and Stiles realizes with a pang that she, too, must be another lie. But he has to leave, can’t bear to look at Derek right now. He hoists himself up and they’re off. Stiles is already halfway towards the manor when he turns around to see if Derek is following him.

He isn’t.

The stables are empty, thankfully, and Stiles ushers Joy into a stall, patting her nose in relief. She noses at his fingers affectionately, and Stiles could almost pretend that this might be his horse, and this could be his stable, his lovely estate, and most of all, Derek his husband…

But it’s all a lie.

“My lord, back so soon, was the picnic not to your liking, I told Gretchen in the kitchens that there wasn’t enough cheese, but—”

“I need my things,” Stiles says. “Please.”

“Your—?”

Stiles can see the youth’s mouth start to form the words “my lord,” but Stiles stops him. “Lord Hale told me everything. Don’t pretend on my account any longer. Could you fetch me the clothes I was wearing— that I arrived in?”

Jacob nods, bowing his head. “Of course, my lord— Mage Stilinski. I am, I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, gritting his teeth. “You were only doing what your lord asked you to.”

Jacob leads him back to the chambers he woke up in, and promptly brings him a tailored coat, shirt, and breeches. It’s respectable enough, finer than any of Stiles’ clothes in his memory, with an embroidered trim, and neat, shining orange beading. It’s actually quite lovely. Stiles wonders if he spent the time to bead it himself; there are a few sewing spells he’s learned since moving to the Capitol.

Stiles changes quickly and shrugs on the coat, and then Jacob hands him an orange beaded mask. It’s clumsily painted, with sculpted ears to look like a fox, and the beading matches the trim on the tailcoat. Stiles tucks the mask in his pocket, grimacing. Under the candlelight and shine of a masquerade ball, it must have looked fine, but in the light of day it is what Stiles is: common.

He looks to his reflection— his tailcoat is gaudy in the soft morning light, and it’ll be very noticeable that he’s wearing evening attire. People will talk, especially if he’s spotted leaving Hale Manor.

No matter.

 

* * *

 

The rain has started back up again, the brief respite in the morning now given way to a steady drizzle. Stiles’ boots are covered in mud, and he knows he’s a sight in his sodden masquerade finery as he returns to the Mage’s Guild. It took the better part of two hours to walk all the way back to the Capitol. Twice, a carriage stopped by him, gilded in Hale colors and bearing the triskelion, and a footman politely asked if he could take Stiles anywhere he needed to go. Both times, Stiles refused.

He gets lost on his way to his quarters twice, and finally resorts to asking a novice where his own quarters might be. The wide-eyed youth points towards down the eastern wing, and Stiles doesn’t even have the energy to be impressed with himself for getting one of the nicer rooms.

He ignores the whispers that follow him down the hall. Stiles is used to it; people making fun of him, other mages who’ve had enough gold to pay their tuition three times over and didn’t need to work long hours like Stiles did.

What he doesn’t expect is the wide eyes that track him, and then he hears _drank the legendary Amytheused poison and survived_ in an awed gasp.

Stiles stops outside his door, waving his hand to release the ward that locks it, and then falters, realizing that his present— future?— self must have done something more complicated than just a simple aura recognition. He’s standing there, dripping wet on the floor, trying to figure out what spell he possibly could have used when the door next to his opens.

It’s two mages in journeyman robes that Stiles doesn’t know, and they stare at Stiles with shining eyes.

“Mage Stilinski! You’ve returned!” one of the girls says.

“I— yeah, hi, uh—” Stiles doesn’t know their names. He should know his neighbors, right?

“Shh! Don’t bother him, he probably needs to sleep for ages!” the other girl says, pulling her friend back inside the room.

“But I wanted to ask if he’d read my diss—”

“No!” The first girl looks at Stiles and then back at her friend, a high blush forming on her cheeks, and then slams the door shut, leaving Stiles bewildered. As it closes he sees the faint glow of their locking spell flicking back into place.

Oh, of course.

Stiles presses three fingers to the very center of the door, and it pulses with a white-hot light and then he hears a click.

He pushes the door open, satisfied he figured out the correct spell, and walks into his room.

It’s dreary looking, only slightly larger than the room he remembers. It’s cluttered with scrolls and there’s barely room to walk, with overflowing bookshelves, two workshop tables and the remnants of potion making and bottling still strewn over both of them. In the corner is a pitiful looking cot with a heap of tangled bedding.

Stiles peels himself out of his wet clothing, places the fox mask on his desk. He finds a clean nightshirt, breathes in the familiar rough hewn fabric and slumps onto his cot and falls asleep.

He dreams of Derek calling him _my Stiles_ and kissing his hand, and pulling him close to kiss—

Stiles wakes up to a relentless amount of knocking.

“I’m sleeping, go away— and if it’s you, Finstock, just write down the order on a scroll and place it in the mailbox like everyone else!” Stiles yells.

“This is a royal summons from Her Majesty, Queen Lydia,” says a stilted voice outside.

Stiles curses, and falls out of bed and bangs his arm on a table end before he finds a suitable dressing gown (still, with three holes in it) to throw over his nightshirt. He scrambles to the door and opens it a crack, peering through it.

There’s an unamused footsoldier dressed in the Queen’s colors, and he hands Stiles a scroll bearing the royal seal.

Stiles’ throat goes dry. Surely it can’t be something… bad? His mind is thinking quickly, bringing up one impossible situation after the next. He cracks open the seal, fingers trembling.

He reads the scroll. Then reads it again.

Stiles stares at the scroll in disbelief. “I’m… I’m to attend a meeting with the Queen’s Council? Why?”

The footsoldier makes a bored little sigh. “I believe the matter will be explained at the Council. All eligible mages have been invited. If you are unable to attend, please let me know so I can pass on your apologies to the Queen. If you don’t have any more questions, I have many more summons to deliver today.”

“No, no no,” Stiles stammers. “I would love to— I mean— yes, I’ll be there!”

The footsoldier nods and turns around, the feather in his cap bobbing daintily.

Stiles closes the door and stares back at the scroll in his hands, wondering what it might mean.

 

* * *

 

He gets dressed quickly. His quarters are bigger than the one he remembers, and he has a few more possessions, but not many. He finds a somber, somewhat formal black tailcoat and breeches that have seen better days but will pass for a meeting at court.

Stiles sighs and wishes he had a little bit of magic left so he could do a pick-me-up spell, or even to just voicecall Scott and get a bit of comfort from that. According to the letters on his desk, his best friend is on the Kaethur-Leeow border, helping rebuild villages that were destroyed during the war. Peace is an ongoing effort, but Stiles sorely wishes he had someone who he could talk to about all of this.

He hangs up the evening wear as best he can to dry, and then heads for the castle.

It’s still raining, so Stiles is soaked to the bone again when he arrives at the front gates. The guards peer down their noses at him and unfurl a long scroll. “Name?”

“Stiles Stilinski?” He pulls his own summons out of his pocket and offers it to the guards.

One of them nods. “Down the hall with the others. Wait until your name is called.”

“Others? I don’t even… what is this for?”

The guards stare at him like he’s grown a second head.

“I… may have had too much ale last night,” Stiles improvises.

The guard nods sympathetically and jostles the other one good-naturedly, like he too had too much ale last night. “King John of Thayria is looking for for some sort of qualified mage to do something while he’s visiting. It’s very secret, but the Queen is allowing him to test all the eligible ones in the Capitol while he’s here.”

There’s not much more the guards know, and Stiles tries to process the information as best he can as he strides into the main entryway. It’s filled with other mages, some from the Guild, some not, and some of them he recognizes, even if they do look different from his memory. Everyone is dressed in their finest, and Stiles feels particularly shabby.

He lingers, trying to listen to pieces of information to put together what sort of test it is. Whispers follow him, people staring at him in awe and disbelief.

A man dressed in gaudy finery strides up to him, and Stiles recognizes a balding Master Harris— who failed him more times than he could remember when he was studying at university.

“That was an incredible feat you performed last night at the ball,” Harris says, nodding at Stiles.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, begrudgingly. He still can’t let go of all the terrible memories he has of this man and his classes.

“The _Amytheused_ poison is fast acting. I do believe it was my lessons on the chemical properties of poisons that laid the foundation for your knowledge and ability to counteract the effects,” Harris says, voice thick and oily.

They’ve drawn a small crowd of mages, watching with interest.

“Uhh, sure,” Stiles says awkwardly, even though he’s pretty sure he didn’t learn anything from Harris’ _Chemical Properties for Potions_ class. He spent most of that semester arguing with Harris about his outdated uses for aconite and receiving failing grades, mostly for talking back.

“If you would be interested in writing a paper on the subject, I would like to invite you to be my co-author in an investigation on…”

“Oh look, there are refreshments, I’m going to go do that.” Stiles excuses himself hastily before he does something rash, like angrily yell at Harris in the royal palace for making his university life miserable.

He walks over to the nearest servant circling the restless mages and plucks a goblet off his tray and takes a long draw of it.

Stiles raises his drink at a nearby oil painting of Her Majesty.

Queen Lydia looks imperiously at him from the rendition; it’s a stern and beautiful painting of her in an elegant blue ballgown, her eyepatch also in fetching blue silk. She took the throne at a young age— barely a year or two older than Stiles— and has ruled Kaethur with fairness and strength since she was a teenager.

Stiles toasts her silently, wondering if it was her ingenuity that helped lead them out of the war.

The palace hasn’t changed much, not that Stiles has visited many times before outside of a few masquerade balls and Mage’s Guild events, but there is a new painting Stiles has never seen before, right by the window.

It’s a _wedding_ portrait. Stiles beams, looking at it, wondering when the renowned knight Allison Argent and their queen finally got together. They look imperiously happy in the painting, Allison in gilded ceremonial armor and Lydia in Kaethur blue lace.

“I’ve missed so much,” he mutters to himself.

“I can’t believe you weren’t at the wedding,” the mage next to Stiles comments. He looks vaguely familiar, and Stiles gets the feeling they’ve taken classes together. “There was a week of festivities and a national holiday declared,” he says.

“I ah, I was working on a project that week,” Stiles says, frowning. He probably would have been at the wedding, he just doesn’t remember it. He and Allison were pretty good friends, at least before Stiles got too busy with university and magic training and before Scott left for the war. And sometimes he thinks in another life, he and Lydia could have been friends too, if she weren’t the Queen and had so many responsibilities. Still, he’s happy for them, he always thought there was something there between them.

Stiles tries his best to remember— Deaton didn’t have any specifics on if his memory would come back. He closes his eyes, thinking about weddings, hoping something comes to mind…

A flash of color, bright oranges and golds, decadent desserts stacked high on a table. A small pudgy hand that— Stiles thinks is his own, actually, reaching for the cakes.

His mother, younger than he’s ever remembered, picks him up with a tinkling laugh. “Oh no, you’ll spoil your dinner,” she says. There are jewels at her throat, and Stiles is distracted by the lights shining in them and starts playing with the necklace. “I know it’s new and distracting, but I have to wear them tonight. They’re a gift from your father, see…”

And then there’s no more. Stiles blinks, not quite certain what he just… remembered? Imagined? It had felt so real. But it couldn’t be possible. His father died when he was a baby, and he and his mother were incredibly poor; they’d never have any jewels of any sort.

A herald enters the room and the mages fall into a quiet hush. “Gabriel Rhosamba!” he announces.

Next to him, Stiles’ former classmate— Gabriel, wrings his hands nervously. “Oh, that’s me!” he says. “Wish me luck!”

“Good luck?” Stiles isn’t even sure what they’re testing for, but surely an audience with both the Queen of Kaethur and the King of Thayria and helping them find whatever they’re looking for would be a huge boost to any mage’s career.

He eventually finds a seat and watches as mages go in and out of the throne room— they all exit with various degrees of confusion and disappointment on their faces. It must be very complex.

Finally, his name is called.

The throne room is filled with people, and there’s a soft light spelled to hover in the center of the circular room. Queen Lydia and the Queen Consort Allison are seated on raised gilded seats, and in the place of honor is the visiting King John. He looks tired, and sad.

Sitting around them are elaborate chairs filled with members of the Council. Stiles recognizes a few of them; members from the Mage's Guild, a few other professors from his university, and knights in their formal armor. There are other courtiers as well, standing behind the chairs, watching and whispering, people Stiles doesn’t know. He does recognize Master Deaton hovering by the door, raising his eyebrows as Stiles walks in.

Stiles drops to a deep bow in front of his Queen and the royal guest, and then straightens up.

Silence.

Lydia crooks her eyebrow up. “Well?”

“I, ah, I read the summons, but I’m not quite certain what I’m supposed to do,” Stiles admits.

“I’m looking for a particular magical signature in a spell. A demonstration of a shielding spell would be preferable, but I think any spell of import would do,” John says.

Vague, but to the point. “Ah, well, sorry,” Stiles shrugs. “I’m all tapped out. I had a run in with some _Amytheused_ poison yesterday and can’t perform magic at all.”

 _“Amytheused_ ,” the visiting king says with interest. “This magical poison is derived from a plant native to my country. I thought it quite rare for it to cross borders, especially as it’s a very carefully controlled substance.”

“Mage Stilinski is quite prominent for his work in energy potions,” Lydia says smoothly. “Last night at the festivities there was an attempt on Lord Hale’s life and Mage Stilinski, in an act of courage and great magical prowess, used his life force to counteract the poison.”

There’s a murmur of impressed whispers among the courtiers, and they all stare at Stiles from behind their gloved hands and handkerchiefs. Stiles stands his ground, remembering how these very people ridiculed the state of his robes and his ideas for making certain magics accessible to all, not just those who could afford mages.

“Stilinski,” John repeats. “Are you a Thayria native?”

“Never been there,” Stiles answers honestly.

“It’s strange that your surname is one of a province in my country,” John says. “Are your parents named thus as well? Are they from Thayria?”

Stiles frowns, not really understanding this line of questioning. He’s always known his upbringing was a bit strange; there weren’t that many people who lived in their village in the south to begin with, and with them being so close to the border, he’d grown up with a lot of familiarity with the foods and the traditions of Thayria. “I am a Kaethur man, as is my family,” Stiles says.

John waves his hand. “Yes, but Stilinski isn’t a _name_ at all, there’s no traceable surname that I can think of with that name, at least among the nobility. And Thayrians don’t have the practice as you do in Kaethur for the common born folk to take the surname of their village or province, if they have need for a surname.”

Stiles nods. He’s learned in his studies that surnames in Thayria, if not the inheritable names of the nobility, tend to follow the month of one’s birth.

“What’s interesting is that your name is— a Kaethur practice to claiming a particular Thayria region as your home,” John says. “Why, if I were not king and I had need for a surname, Stilinski would be mine as well, for I was born in that province.”

Stiles has no idea where this conversation about names is going, but he’s not the visiting royal here, so he just bows his head in respect.

He’s still curious about why the king is asking for magical demonstrations— looking for a particular signature, he said? Magical signatures tend to be unique from mage to mage, but if you were a learned master like Deaton, you could see the details of a signature when a spell was worked, pick out the influences of where that mage learned their magic, the masters they trained with.

Lydia sighs. “Thank you, Mage Stilinski,” she says. “You are dismissed.”

“What are you looking for?” Stiles blurts out. “You’ve gathered practically the entire Guild and then some, almost every mage in the Capitol.”

There are a few gasps at his impertinence, but the Queen just rolls her eyes. She’s gotten used to it, Stiles thinks fondly as he grins. Probably since she was a princess and demanded she sit in on university lessons. It wasn’t uncommon to have a royal visit and the entire class either be silent or to outrageously try to impress her, but Stiles had always been the same; just as irreverent and impulsive with no filter as he’d always been.

“Mage Stilinski, that is a matter of royal secrecy—” Lydia starts.

John waves a hand indulgently. “Oh, I don’t mind. I like this one, he’s funny. And not at all nervous like the others. Plus the name is a nice bit of nostalgia. It’s nice to talk to someone who has ties to my home, even however minimal.”

Lydia narrows her eyes. “If you’re sure— we can retire to a private chamber if you wish to speak with Mage Stilinski longer, but the courtiers—”

They’ll gossip, Stiles knows.

He watches as Allison places a gentle hand on Lydia’s wrist, and reaches up to interlace their fingers together, her eyes softly regarding her Queen. She doesn’t say anything, but Lydia relaxes entirely, and for a second she doesn’t look like the imperious, battle-hardened Queen who’d lost an eye in the war; she’s just a girl smiling at another girl, eyes soft and loving.

“It’s your quest, you may share with whom you wish,” Lydia says. “Just so you know, even if I say— especially if I say that word is not to leave this hall, I am certain that someone will talk.”

“It is fine,” John says. “I suspect that might make things all the more easier, in the long run. No matter. Thank you for your question, Mage Stilinski. As many know, I am without heir. I have long believed that my wife and son perished in their attempt to flee the palace as I was trapped there while Deucalion laid siege for many years. The last thing my wife did was to work a complex shielding spell on me and my chambers, ensuring my safety. I thought she and our son were to join us as we waited out the siege, but we were attacked and she was forced to flee unexpectedly.”

Stiles listens raptly. He knows about the siege, read about it in his history books but it’s another thing to hear it from the man who survived it himself. He had no idea it was the Queen of Thayria who was the talented mage who worked that legendary shielding spell.

“When the war ended,” John says, eyes glittering with hope. “I spoke with many of my citizens, and I have reason to believe that my wife and son escaped.”

“How?” Stiles asks.

“I do not know,” John says. “But my wife was a formidable woman, talented in many types of magic and with a strong force of will. Villages along the border have spoken of seeing her magical signature in items that were traded from Kaethur. Food, spells, basic supplies that were sent to villages being rebuilt. I’ve seen some of these items, and verify that the magical signature is very much so like my wife’s. But different, like it had been forged anew and blazed its own trail, with Kaethur influences. Like she trained my son in magic, and he lives. My heir lives.”

The court breaks into rapid whispers, people speaking over one another in wonder and delight. _A missing prince! The lost heir to Thayria! And King John is looking for him here, in Kaethur!_

Stiles bows. “Well, good luck to you, your majesty.” He’s about to say something else but is momentarily distracted when one of the doors at the back of the room opens and Derek strides through, his eyes shining. He’s still wearing his riding outfit from earlier, still disheveled and unbuttoned and his hair is wind-tousled, his tailcoat open and flapping as he walks. He’s causing quite a stir amongst the well-dressed courtiers.

“Lord Hale,” Lydia acknowledges. “You’re welcome to join the court as we observe demonstrations of magic with King John.”

“Excuse me,” Derek says, striding right for Stiles.

Stiles freezes, not sure what to do. This is not in any sort of decorum handbook, they’re in front of the _Queen,_ for Goddess’ sake! What has Derek been doing? There are ink splotches on his hands and on his sleeves and shirt, and it looks like he went right from their picnic to writing letters like a madman and then rode his horse to court, instead changing his clothing and arriving in a carriage like a proper behaved lordling.

“Stiles,” Derek says urgently. “You aren’t safe here. Please, I know that the security at the Guild is modest and that your abilities are hindered right now, but I offer you complete use of my home for safety and security, we have all the best wards—”

“What—”

“Lord Hale,” Lydia says crossly.

Derek turns to her, and his ears turn red and he stares about the court, as if he’s just realized where he is. He bows deeply. “I apologize, my Queen. I just— I made a recent discovery that the attempt on my life last night— the wine was meant for Sti— Mage Stilinski. We had been talking at the masquerade, and he had brought me a goblet of wine for I had no drink, but he had ordered it for himself— so Mage Stilinski’s life is in danger, and continues to be in danger until we find the assassin.”

Lydia and Allison exchange looks.

"You and Mage Stilinski can make use of one of my private chambers to discuss this. Knight Commander Allison will join you shortly to discuss security; we do not tolerate assassination attempts here in Kaethur. King John, we have many more mages to see today."

"Of course," King John says, casting one more look at Stiles before a servant takes him and Derek away.  

 

* * *

 

The chamber is one of the many meeting rooms in the castle, probably one that saw the most use during the Five Kingdoms War, complete with a topographic relief map of Kaethur and the surroundings kingdoms on a table.

The servant shuts the door, and then Stiles and Derek are alone.

Derek looks at him unabashedly, and he does not seem ashamed at all of the state of his attire.

"The least you could do is button your shirt," Stiles snaps at him. "Do you have any idea what you look like? What people are probably saying, seeing you rush into court practically undressed and asking for _me?"_

"I do not care about the gossip," Derek says. "You left in such a hurry, Stiles, and then when I was going through my correspondence— I needed to tell you. I need you to be safe."

"I'll be fine," Stiles says. "I have excellent wards at the Guild. And I'm sure you're mistaken, why would anyone want to assassinate _me?_ Surely there would be little gain from that. Even if I ordered the wine, any fool would see that I was walking towards you— the poison was meant for you."

Derek is silent. "My enemies are dead or imprisoned. My estate would go to my servants and donated to the Children's Home in the Capitol. There is no one person who would directly benefit from my death."

Stiles waves his hand. "Yes, but you're a Senator, it could be a political grudge, someone you voted against—"

"Stiles," Derek says, stepping closer. "Please. Just— the wards at the Mage's Guild are flimsy, and I know there must be limitations to the type of personal modifications to the ones you can do to your dormitories. I'm— I'm sorry for misleading you this morning. It's my fault you're in this situation in the first place."

He looks so _concerned_ ; bitterness sweeps through Stiles, thinking of the affection he thought he had. It was all a lie. This is Derek, acting out of guilt. Barely even friends, who argue too much, is what he said.

The door opens, and Allison sweeps through, flanked by two other knights behind her. She's still wearing her courtly attire, with a small gilded crown in her dark curls and a lovely embroidered navy gown edged in lace, but she carries herself like a warrior still. Stiles hadn't known she would keep the Knight Commander position after the marriage and is happy for her. He knows Allison would want to continue to serve the kingdom and not just want to be waited on.

"Wait outside," Allison says to the knights, and they nod and step out the door.

After it shuts Allison rushes forward, seizing Stiles in a hug. "I was so worried last night," she says. "I know that Derek was taking care of you; I wasn't expecting to see you today or for you to answer the summons since you were tapped out."

Stiles glances at Derek, who looks away. He pats his friend on the back, gingerly trying not to muss up her dress. "I'm fine," Stiles says. "That poison was definitely not meant for me."

"If you had drank it, you would be dead," Derek says darkly. "There is not a mage in Kaethur who could have done what you did last night for me. Knight Commander, look at these letters. My informant intercepted them earlier today under my request to investigate the assassination attempt. I was incredibly surprised I was to find out that I was not the target. She turned over every stone in the Capitol to look for more information about the assassin and found they had hastily left an innroom the night of the masquerade. They left behind a few meager possessions and these letters."

Allison takes the letters, peruses them for a moment. "I will have to take these to the Queen. It won't go over well, just as we've established peace with Thayria, and to have King John visiting as well, to discover that one of their citizens has been attempting murder on one of our own."

"Even if it's a Thayria assassin, these letters can't prove that I was the target—"

Allison holds up one of the pieces of parchment. Drawn on it are two likenesses of Stiles, one when he was a teenager and still lived in the South; and another projecting what he might look like as an adult.

Stiles' mouth falls open, and then he closes it. "Well, clearly they were looking for someone with a beard. Which I can't grow."

His joke falls flat on Allison and Derek.

"The assassin is still at large," Derek says. "They could be still in the Capitol. They might try again. Please, let me offer you the safety and security of my manor, outside the city—"

"That's a good idea," Allison says. "Stiles, you should go with him until this all blows over. I'll have my finest knights on the issue and we'll catch this assassin in no time."

It might as well be a royal decree.

"Fine," Stiles says, pushing past Derek roughly and out the door so he can be alone with his thoughts. Great. An indefinite amount of time stuck in an estate with the man he loves, the man who lied to him and made a fool out of him.

 

* * *

 

"My lord, afternoon tea is prepared," Jacob says politely, rapping again on Stiles' door.

The guest chambers he woke up in has been set up for his use. Stiles asked for a few of his personal effects from the Guild to be brought over, and Derek apparently saw fit to just move all his belongings here. Everything Stiles owns is now in these chambers: his magic supplies, books, clothes, even the small painted portrait of his mother now sits on the ornate writing desk here. It looks out of place, the simple wooden frame rustic against the shiny lacquered surface. Stiles brushes its surface gently. "You'd know what to do," he says softly.

Another knock. Jacob must still be outside.

"No thank you," Stiles calls out. "And you don't have to call me 'my lord,' you know that I know it was all a ruse, right?"

"I— sorry, Mage Stilinski— I— it's habit, I suppose. And respect. Lord Hale holds you in such high esteem."

"Right." Stiles flops down on the too-comfortable bed, burying himself in the downy pillows. "I don't want tea," Stiles says. "Sorry for the trouble. "

His stomach growls. He hadn't eaten lunch, he'd gone right from the Guild to the palace, and the last thing he ate were those grapes in the field with Derek this morning.

"If it isn't too bold, you needn't take afternoon tea with Lord Hale, if that's what you were afraid of," Jacob says cheekily.

"Oh."

"Would you like me to bring it to your chambers?"

"...Sure."

A few moments later there's another polite rapping, and Jacob and the other girl— Melinda, Stiles thinks her name is— are bearing trays. They walk into the sitting room and lay it all out and within a minute Stiles is staring at pots of tea, afternoon scones with jam and cream, and small sandwiches and fruit.

"Thank you," Stiles says.

The two of them bow, and Melinda nearly falls to the ground with how quickly she's curtseying. Stiles isn't used to it at all. He's pretty sure servants of a noble's household might actually outrank low level mages.

"I'm so glad you're staying with us," Melinda whispers furtively. "Lord Hale was so upset when you left, I hope you make amends soon."

Stiles has no idea what to make of this, so he just nods and the servants leave. Melinda shoots him another look before she closes the door and grins at him, and then he's alone.

He eats probably too much of everything; stuffs himself on the rich food, and then decides it will probably not be good for his health at all to lay back in bed. He doesn't really know what to do, though. If he were at the Guild he'd probably look over any jobs available in the main hall, work on his spells and experiments, but Stiles is too afraid of messing up these elaborate rooms with the stench of magic and anything that could possibly go wrong.

Finally Stiles tries to make himself look somewhat presentable in his workrobes; he doesn't put on any of the fancy clothes that have been left in the dressing room for him.

He wanders the estate; it's huge, and he entertains himself walking down the long hallways, admiring the art adorning the walls, and stepping quickly to duck in an alcove if he hears footsteps. He doesn't want to run into Derek, not now.

Stiles is itching to explore the grounds again but gets distracted when he spots the stables. Is Joy still there? Was she part of this plot too?

The stables are dark and quiet, and thankfully, empty. Stiles pets a few of the horses as he passes by. The storage shed is left unlatched, so Stiles peeks inside and amidst all the tools and sacks of feed he finds an open bag of sugar cubes. He pockets a few and makes his way down the aisle, murmuring hello to Derek’s horses. He spots Orliane, letting her eat sugar cubes out of his hand. She eyes him with intelligent eyes and whuffs at him, as if to say _everything is okay._

Stiles sighs and continues down the aisle.

Joy neighs gleefully when she sees him, crowds up to the stall door when Stiles approaches.

"Hey, girl," Stiles says softly, softly stroking her nose, marvelling at the velvety softness of it.

He lets himself into the stall; he loses track of time how long he spends there. He finds tools and mucks out her stall, gets her fresh water and starts grooming her. It's relaxing. Nice.

It was a lovely dream, that she was his horse. He can pretend a little longer. At the least, Joy's getting a good grooming out of it.

"She's still yours, you know," Derek says from the stall door, leaning over.

So much for peace and quiet.

"And you want to give me a horse worth its weight in gold _why?"_

Derek sighs. "Stiles— why do you think I spend two years trying to grow a non-native flower in my greenhouse?"

 _Because you're stubborn and I may have said it was impossible and you wanted to prove me wrong,_ Stiles thinks, stepping back from Joy. He glares at Derek and exits the stall without looking at him. Maybe he's just guilty and rich and doesn't know what else to do with his money.

Jacob rushes into the stable, breathing heavily. "My lord— there's a footsoldier from the royal palace, bearing a message—"

"Of course," Derek says, going to follow him.

"For Mage Stilinski."

 

* * *

 

The royal footsoldier eyes Stiles' dirty robes with distaste. "Do you have a reply, or not? This is time sensitive, you know."

"I—" Stiles has no idea what to make of the fact that the King of Thayria has just requested a private audience with him.

"You should do it," Derek says. He makes an abortive movement like he wants to reach for Stiles, and then he lets his arm hang by his side awkwardly.

"Okay, yes, yes, I'll be there for afternoon tea." Stiles scrawls his signature on the scroll and the footsoldier harrumphs, rolling it back up and getting astride his horse.

Stiles watches him gallop off, and then starts to get into a panic. "Afternoon tea is in an hour, I don't have—"

"Don't worry about it," Derek says smoothly.

Within twenty minutes Stiles has been dressed in one of Derek's outfits— but this one too is suspiciously tailored to fit Stiles. His hair has been combed and styled by Melinda, who tuts approvingly at him as she puts on the finishing touches. Wearing the beaded gray tailcoat and smart cream breeches, with a fashionable hairstyle, Stiles barely recognizes himself in the mirror. He looks like a noble.

He arrives by carriage, and is waved through to the center of the palace. Stiles feels strange, entering from the main entrance where all the courtiers and nobles do.

He's immediately ushered to a private chamber that's already set for afternoon tea; not only does Stiles see the honeyed nut spreads and scones and jam and cream typical of Kaethur fare, but also spiraled rolls and spiced nuts and decadent dried fruits from Thayria.

Stiles bows when King John enters the room, but he's immediately waved off.

"Sit, please. This entire visit I've been surrounded by nothing but courtiers and politicians and people hanging on my every word, trying to seek favor. I remembered your company as refreshing, and thought you'd do well for an afternoon companion." King John's eyes twinkle.

"Sounds like court," Stiles says, reaching for a spiraled roll. He bites into it and breathes deeply. "These are good, but not as good as they are South."

"Did you live close to the Thayria border? Seems like you're familiar with our food."

Stiles nods, his mouth full. "My mother and I were from a small village just off the border."

King John chuckles and hands him a napkin. "It's nice that you don't stand on custom when it comes to royalty. The Kaethur people can be pretty uptight about that. I've been waited on hand and foot since I got here, and everyone has these stories about me. I know I've been trapped in my own palace for nearly two decades, but it's not like I'm incompetent."

"Who's treating you like you're incompetent?" Stiles asks indignantly.

"Not the Queen, if that's what you're worried about. All our discussions have been going well, and she's been quite helpful about honoring old trade agreements and even drafting new ones. It's going to be a huge boost in getting my kingdom back on its feet." King John sighs. "I'm beginning to wonder if this search for my heir is nothing but a wild goose chase."

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't think so. I mean, you have the money and the time. If I had family alive and the resources to pursue any lead, I'd look for them."

King John gives him a curious look. "And where is your family, of name Stilinski?"

The sweet roll in Stiles' mouth is difficult to swallow. "My father died when I was too young to remember; in the early days of the Five Kingdoms War. My mother passed when I was a youth, and then I packed everything up and moved to the Capitol to pursue magic."

King John steeples his fingers together and rests his chin on them. "It's very interesting, your surname."

"I know, I know, a province in your country," Stiles says, waving his hand. "My mother must have traveled there and liked it or something. It's not very interesting. Can you pass me that nut butter?"

King John reaches for the dish and laughs good naturedly. "I can't tell you the last time someone has ever asked me to pass them anything."

Stiles shrugs. "I guess royalty doesn't really faze me much. Queen Lydia— back when she was a Princess, used to take classes at the University, come down to the mage's classes to observe. I talked to her all the time. She thought I was funny."

"I can see that," John says, handing Stiles the dish. "What is this? I've seen it around but no one has bothered to explain what it is."

"Oh! It's quite good on bread or rolls. It's very rich, especially the kind they have here in the castle, but it's just nuts that are ground into a smooth consistency with oil— usually peanuts, or almonds if you're fancy. It's also very high in fat, " Stiles says, chuckling a little. "I used to eat this all the time when I lived at the Mage's Guild. Poor student's fare, I suppose, because it's cheap and lasts forever, but I've a taste for it, even when I'm at the palace."

John takes a generous smear with his knife and spreads it on a roll of his own.

Stiles eyes it suspiciously. "I did tell you it's very high in fat," he says. "How old are you? The elderly shouldn't have much of these rich foods, it’s bad for your heart.”

John gives him a strange look. "Are you looking after my health?"

"We're friends, of course I am," Stiles says.

They share a small moment, John looking at him warmly, and then the door flings open.

Lydia strides confidently in, a look of annoyance on her face. "Ah, there you are, King John," she says. She quirks her eyebrow at Stiles when she sees him, but she doesn't say anything. "I got your note about wanting afternoon tea to yourself but I had these minstrels from eastern Kaethur travel all this way to entertain you—"

John rises to his feet and bows his head. "Forgive me. The quick wit of the Kaethur court was moving too fast for an old man like me; I wanted a simple tea to myself with a friend, so I asked Stiles to join me."

"Of course," Lydia says smoothly. "Mage Stilinski would be welcome at anytime."

"Thank you for joining me, I will retire to my chambers for a moment before our— what was our afternoon activity again after the minstrels?"

"Going over crop productivity," Lydia says.

"Of course." John nods at both Stiles and Lydia, and makes his way out of the room.

When he's gone, Lydia turns on Stiles. "What are you doing, seeking favor with the King?"

"I'm not doing anything," Stiles insists. "Look, he asked me to come have tea with him because he was tired of the way everyone treats him here."

Lydia looks aghast. "Have we offended—"

Stiles waves his hands. "No, nothing like that. Just all that 'your majesty' stuff and the way people fall over him actually seeking favors. And you know how I am. I don't really care."

"Rank never seemed to matter with you on who you associated with," Lydia says thoughtfully.

Rank doesn't matter, Stiles thinks dully. Except when it dictates what's proper and who can court who.

He was having such a good afternoon, too, without thinking of Derek. Bleh.

Lydia nods at him. "Very well. If King John likes your company so much, you should join us at court every afternoon, or at least more often. We could use a few more mages around here."

"How goes the search for his missing heir?"

Lydia sighs. "I don't think we're going to find him. We've gone through almost all the mages in the Capitol already; and I don't think there are any with magical caliber enough outside the Capitol who might be who he's looking for."

Stiles nods; any mage with any level of power comes right to the Capitol to train and learn; that's where the money is at, at least. Mages in the outlying villages might be able to get by on doing a few easy spells for their neighbors, like charming eggs to keep cool or spelling wards to keep livestock from wandering, but it sounds like King John is looking for someone with experience.

"Well, it sounds like he's having a good visit nonetheless," Stiles says. "He told me all the trade talks are going to be essential in bringing back Thayria's trade and boost their economy."

"Of course they are," Lydia says, but Stiles can see she's pleased at this news. "You've been staying at Hale manor, right? I'll send a carriage for you when we have events."

"I ... yes. I'm at Hale's."

Amusement flickers in Lydia's eyes. "And how is Lord Hale?"

"I—" Stiles doesn't know how to answer that.

 

* * *

 

He's a mess of emotion by the time he arrives back at Hale Manor, having spent the entire ride to mull over everything that’s happened. He watches the carriage leave and enters the house as quietly as he can, through the servant's entrance, and bumps into someone in the doorway.

"Mage Stilinski," Beatrice says, ducking her head. "Dinner will be ready soon. I'll send someone for you."

Stiles' stomach growls, but he falters at the idea of seeing Derek so soon. "If I may— could I have food sent to my chambers?"

Beatrice gives him a soft look. "Of course, dear."

The servants seem to catch on quickly that he doesn't want to see Derek, doesn't want to talk to him. He takes all his meals in his chambers, alone, although Jacob will still come in and recite the morning news for him. It's fine lodging, fine food, and for the most part, Stiles is alone, if somewhat trapped in this beautiful home.

He finds respite by wandering the gardens, looking through the greenhouses. Somehow, either by coincidence or whether Derek is aptly avoiding him right back and respecting his space, Stiles never runs into the man. Stiles might as well be lord of this manor alone with the way he never sees Derek, the way the servants talk to him.

It's fine by him. More time for Stiles to brood.

He asks Beatrice for an unfurnished room one day so he could practice his magic, and then he can work and occupy himself, digging out his journals and working on perfecting his energy potions. He's almost gotten the formula right— a potion that would give its drinker a boost to get them through the day. It wouldn’t be replacement for a night's sleep, but still incredibly helpful for staying alert on the job. It's quite possibly become his life's work.

Stiles busies himself, and soon forgets the circumstances of his living. He steals away to talk to Joy as much as he can; confiding in her how he feels, patting her mane and sneaking her treats. Soon the sight of Stiles inspires as much happiness as a sugar cube, even if he's there just to pet her nose. He wishes he could take her out for a ride, but he doesn't want to push his boundaries. He's a guest, and Derek would probably say yes... but that would mean talking to Derek.

He gets another visit from Deaton over the next week; his magic is slowly recovering, although he shouldn’t try any spells just yet. Memory wise, it looks hopeful. Every so often Stiles will see something and he’ll _remember_ , like it was always a part of him; trying to perfect his potions, arguing with Finstock over banana spells, researching with Derek, laughing with Scott before he was left for the border. It’s not a lot, but it’s comforting to know that his brain is healing from the incident.

The thing is, among the memories that occasionally resurface are glimpses, like half-forgotten dreams, things Stiles has no place for, no reason why these images would be in his head. They’re all from a child’s point of view, wandering around lavishly decorated halls, sitting in his mother’s lap, playing with the jewels around her neck, lazily sitting by a river in the hot desert heat.

None of these things make sense, and it shouldn’t feel familiar at all, and yet…

Stiles asks Deaton about it, and the master mage probes about in his head, trying to answer Stiles’ questions about where these… visions came from. Because they can’t be memories.

“They’re memories,” Deaton says.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Stiles says.

“There aren’t anyone’s thoughts in your head but your own. But there are traces of a significant spell here, very complex.” Deaton furrows his eyebrows together. “There are very few mages alive in the world who could work such a difficult magic, and I don’t recognize this spell signature.”

“What?” Stiles gasps. His memory has been modified? By who?

“Memory magic is difficult; I can’t break this without causing significant damage to your brain, Stiles. The person who put this lock—”

“Lock,” Stiles repeats.

Deaton nods. “When you neutralized the poison, you used your raw magic, your life essence. No spell, no framework to follow, and the primary side-effect we saw was the loss of your most recent memories. I can see how this trauma also broke the foundation of the original spell; hence the new memories.”

“It can’t be my childhood, though,” Stiles says, frowning. “My mother and I were incredibly poor. We’ve always been so. The things I saw in those visions— jewels and rich tapestries and elaborate gowns— it’s not possible to be a _memory._ ”

Deaton makes a noncommittal noise. “Perhaps. You’re recovering well here; seems like your magic and memories will come along in due time. You’re quite lucky, you know.”

Stiles doesn’t feel lucky. He feels trapped, restless. He sleeps in the luxurious bed provided for him, eats decadent food, wakes up every morning to a beautiful view of the gardens. The servants leave him alone, and Derek— Stiles knows Derek is in the house; sometimes hears his footsteps on the other end of the hallway, but when he looks, no one is there.

He focuses on his work. He reads novels he meant to read. He strolls in the gardens.

His heart aches.

Stiles finds himself in the greenhouse one afternoon, watching the Thayria lily's petals unfurl in the afternoon sunset. It's a nocturnal flower, blooms at night to escape the hot desert heat.

What had Derek meant that time, anyways, asking why he would have spent all that time trying to grow a damn flower?

That morning seems so far away, and it takes a moment for Stiles to remember.

_You told me once, they were your mother's favorite. I wanted to grow them. For you._

If the lie about their marriage was only concocted for the sake of Stiles' injury, and Derek had been growing the lily for two years—

Fuck, Stiles has been an idiot.

He races up the stairs in the manor, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls until he spots Melinda carrying a grate full of glowing coals.

"Where—?"

Melinda takes one look at him and grins. "Lord Hale's in his study."

Stiles turns about; there's a whole section of the manor he hadn't explored yet. He has no idea where Derek's study is.

"Your left, then take another left, and fifth door down." She winks. "Good luck."

He finds himself down unfamiliar hallways; the windows are all closed off with curtains, the passageways are dark, gloomy. Stiles follows the directions until he finds the fifth door, an ornate wooden thing, heavy. He knocks and there's no answer. Stiles paces back and forth in front of the door for ten minutes and finally pushes open the door.

The noise startles Derek at his desk. He must have been asleep; there's a quill pressed to his face, and an ink blot on his chin.

He's still the most beautiful man Stiles knows.

"Stiles," Derek says, staring.

"You— you— grew that flower for me. For two years. It wasn't part of this plan, to lie to me about being married."

Derek flushes. "Yes."

"It wasn't just to prove me wrong—" Stiles glances at Derek and stops short, seeing Derek's open, unguarded expression. Vulnerable. Looking at Stiles with hope and— longing. "It was a gift," he says quietly, like admitting it is a huge thing.

"I was planning to start courting you this summer," Derek says. "I— I'm quite fond of you. I know we didn't get off to the best start, but we worked together doing all that research and you— you get under my skin like no one else does, and you're infuriating and you flaunt authority but I— I can't imagine anyone I want more."

Stiles' heart is racing. "Okay," he says softly.

"What?"

"Court me. I want you to. I want to— be your intended. And you to be mine." Stiles never dared he'd speak those words, but here he is.

Derek stands up abruptly and walks over to him and stops a foot away. "Stiles— you're sure?"

"Yes, absolutely." Stiles has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

Derek takes his hand and presses a soft kiss there like he had that morning so long ago, and oh, oh, Stiles _wants_. Stiles takes Derek by the chin and guides him back up to his lips.

"Stiles — we should have a chaperone, if this is to be proper—"

"Fuck proper," Stiles says, and claims Derek's lips in a kiss.

It's hot and heady and everything he's ever dreamed of, and Derek groans, lips soft and insistent. His mouth is sweet and yields to him, and Stiles wants to lose himself into the touch. He pulls Derek closer by the waist, running his hands along his back. They're chest to chest, and Stiles can feel Derek's warmth through their layers of fabric, and _—_

A sudden pop of noise behind them makes them spring apart. There's a spark and flames starting on Derek's desk, parchment going up in smoke.

"What was that?" Derek says in alarm, looking about for an intruder.

Stiles smothers the flickering flames with his sleeves, blushing. "My magic starting to come back, apparently. I haven't made something accidentally spark since I was a novice. I, um, I'm surprised I had enough magic recovered already to do that."

"I've heard of young mages causing minor magical accidents before, sudden gusts of wind or chills in the air or plants sprouting up an inch or two out of the blue. Never fire, though," Derek says, looking on in fascination.

"I guess it's rare. I've never met anyone else who manifests raw magic in that form, usually wind is what's common. but I've read that there are others. It's not... that unusual."

"I suppose," Derek says. He steps closer to Stiles.

Stiles knows what most of the court says about Derek; _Lord Hale is oh so handsome, but he never smiles. A perpetual cloud of unpleasantness. Like talking to a statue. A good Senator, but dreadfully boring as a person._

They don’t know Derek like Stiles does; never spent those countless hours in the Capitol Library with him, surrounded by scrolls. That passion in Derek’s eyes when he’s furious about politics, trying to get through the bureaucracy of his position in the Senate to actually get things done. It’s not something that’s easily seen; Derek, to the public is a stoic, cold figure.

Derek’s eyes crinkle a bit at the edges, and Stiles knows he’s smiling, can see the slight upward turn of his lips, and feels warm at the fond expression he’s giving Stiles as he steps closer. Stiles’ face heats up as he thinks about the kiss, the impropriety of it, the heat of Derek’s touch, the way Derek had _kissed him back…_

There’s a long moment where Derek’s eyes meet his, and Stiles is lost in the kaleidoscope of green and gray and gold. Blue, too, if he thinks about it, the depths of color in Derek’s eyes are something he used to dream about, and now they’re standing so close.

Derek’s lips are parted now, like he’s thinking about the kiss, too. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip; Stiles can’t look away from the way the light catches the shining wetness there.

“Stiles,” Derek says softly.

“Derek.” Oh, to say his name again like this, no titles between them. Stiles closes his eyes. They’re so close now; he can feel the warmth of Derek’s body radiating in the air between them, the breath from his lips.

“If I kiss you again I may not stop,” Derek whispers.

Stiles shudders. He reaches up to stroke Derek’s cheek, and his fingers trace the curve of his chin, down his neck, and then the bare collarbone exposed by his unbuttoned shirt.

“I would not want you to,” Stiles says, hardly daring to breathe.

Derek takes Stiles’ hand, his touch warm and gentle. He looks up at Stiles, his eyes dark and hooded with a desire Stiles wants to drown in. “Will you join me for breakfast tomorrow morning?”

Stiles’ heart pounds. “Yes.”

But what about now, tonight? Is Derek about to ask if he—

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Derek says, eyes glittering with mischief.

 

* * *

 

Stiles gets dressed without Jacob’s help that morning, practically sprints down the stairs and then slows to a stately walk as he descends. Derek is waiting at the bottom of the steps and offers Stiles his arm.

They sit in the dining room; eating companionably together, and Stiles is surprised at how… easy it is, and loses himself in idyllic daydreams of growing old with Derek, having breakfast with him every morning.

“What do you think?”

“Every morning,” Stiles says dreamily. “Wait, what?”

“I meant about seeking an audience with King John,” Derek says. “Since your magic has returned? Clearly he’s hasn’t found what he’s looking for.”

“I—” Stiles falters, and sets down his fork. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try and narrow down the search for the Thayria heir.”

“Heir?”

Oh, right. Derek had arrived in court after King John had made that announcement. Stiles explains quickly, watching Derek’s eyebrows raise.

“It will be a good exercise, to practice magic at least,” Stiles says. “And he’s an interesting man. I had some questions about magical theories in his country I’d love to hear more about, too.”

“Of course.” Derek hands Stiles one of the spiraled rolls. “These are your favorite, right?”

Stiles grins and takes it. Their fingers brush, and he can feel his cheeks heat up again.

“This afternoon, when you return from the palace, would you like to go riding with me?” Derek asks. “The countryside is quite lovely today.”

“I’d love that,” Stiles says.

He can’t remember feeling happier as the carriage pulls into the palace courtyard. Stiles follows the footsoldier into the main hall. There are only a few mages waiting to demonstrate their magic today; King John must be almost finished with his search.

Stiles doesn’t have to wait long; he’s announced, and then he finds himself in front of Queen Lydia and the visiting Thayria court again. King John gives him a fond nod, and the courtiers whisper to themselves, looking bored. They must have gone through hundreds of demonstrations already. At least it’s almost over. Stiles wonders what King John will do when he’s exhausted all the mages in Kaethur; will he search another kingdom, perhaps?

“As I’m still recovering from a recent magical trauma, I will perform a simple spell, but you should be able to still see enough of a magical signature,” Stiles says.

“Go on,” Queen Lydia says.

Stiles takes a deep breath, holds his hands aloft. He closes his eyes, searching for his well of magic— it’s nowhere near what he’s accustomed to, but he finds his power and draws on it, and speaks a simple phrase.

The sparks flicker in his hands, and then bursts into a tall, controlled flame. Stiles holds the fire, the cool flames tickling at his fingers. He concentrates, holding the fire as King John studies it.

Stiles exhales and lets go of the spell; the fire disappears, and he catches his breath, chest heaving. He stands there for a moment, and he blinks.

King John is staring at him.

“What?” Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “I know it’s not very impressive, but I don’t have a lot of power right now.”

“I think I knew, but I couldn’t be sure,” King John says, standing up, his eyes filling with tears. “You have her eyes, you know.”

 

* * *

 

Things move very fast after that.

Stiles is ushered off to a private chamber to talk to King John as the court nearly explodes in the excitement. They’re far from the others now, but Stiles can still hear the gasps and fervent whispers— _Mage Stilinski, a prince!_

He can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that this man is his father.

“Your mother saved my life. And yours. The shield she left me in lasted for decades— I think she didn’t expect the siege to last so long,” King John says, a faraway expression in his eyes. “I knew she escaped.”

Stiles isn’t sure when he started believing it himself, but there’s a pendant around King John’s neck; a large, heavy thing studded with rubies, but then another one of those strange visions—memories comes to mind: Stiles, a toddler, sitting in a warm lap, reaching up to play with it, his mother laughing in the distance.

The more he talks with the king— his father— the more he remembers. It made sense: his mother, a talented mage, sealing away his memories so Stiles wouldn’t inadvertently give them away while they started their new life.

It’s too much to believe, and then Stiles finds himself reminiscing about his mother, and his father sweeps him into a hug.

Everything is a blur after that; Stiles weeps, his father weeps, they hold each other and talk about his mother and cry some more.

At some point food is brought; then there’s a brief audience with Queen Lydia, everything passes by in a haze of flurry and movement. Stiles is shown to elaborate guest quarters, already filled with his personal items— did Derek send them? Does Derek know?

Derek.

Stiles should talk to Derek. He needs to… reschedule their riding in the countryside. Tomorrow he’s supposed to meet with the royal advisors from Thayria, and then there’s fitting for new attire…

He collapses on the silk sheets, falling promptly asleep. He’ll write Derek a letter first thing tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Stiles paces back and forth. “What do you mean, he hasn’t responded?”

“Lord Hale received your invitation for the ball only yesterday, your highness.” One of Stiles’ many advisors, Kendall, gives him a surly look. His expression never changes from the flat, unamused stare. He looks at his fingernails, probably eager to get back to discussing matters of state and not Stiles’ romantic pursuits.

Stiles frowns. It’s been almost a month; he hasn’t heard anything from Derek. Unfortunately ever since he’s been announced as the Royal Crown Prince of Thayria, he hasn’t ever had a moment to himself; he wasn’t able to get a letter out to Derek until a few days later, when some of the chaos died down, but Derek didn’t answer, letting Stiles wonder if his letter was too forward, talking about their courtship and how much Stiles missed him.

Derek doesn’t answer the second letter, or the third, either, and Stiles is beginning to despair that he changed his mind, that he doesn’t want to court after all.

He at least wishes he could see Derek before he leaves the country.

Queen Lydia is hosting another ball; the kingdom is in good spirits, and the story of Stiles’ royal lineage making the rounds and getting more and more romantic and exaggerated everyday. People who turned their noses down at Stiles when he was just a mage now flutter their eyelashes at him and openly lavish praise on his intelligence, his skill with magic, his bravery for defending a Kaethur noble at the last masquerade ball.

Stiles has received no less than thirty-seven offers of courtship in the last month. He also gets thirty-seven reprimands from all the Thayria advisors, who all hate Stiles with every fiber of their being, because apparently every word he says needs to be monitored, rehearsed, and practiced.

“What do you mean, I can’t just say _no, I’m not interested_?” He throws up his hands in frustration during one of his endless meetings with his father’s advisors. “It’s honest, it’s clear and simple, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Anita, who heads the Thayria royal council, tuts at him, shaking her head in dismay. “This is a unique situation. The country is still recovering from the Five Kingdoms War. We need to secure the most advantageous match as possible. You may decline courtships, but you need to be more vague, make sure that it’s still within the realm of possibility.”

Kendall unfurls a scroll and presents it to Stiles. “Here is a list we’ve compiled of acceptable suitors from Kaethur, as well as suitors from your country.”

Stiles scans the list quickly, and with a pang spots Derek’s name somewhere in the middle. To distract himself, he quickly scans the rest of it and tries to focus on something else. “Heh, you’re on here, Kendall.”

Kendall stiffens. “Yes. My family is one of the oldest noble houses in Thayria. We’ve been loyal to the crown for generations and have always served, whether as knights or in the court.”

Anita claps Kendall on the back. “You’re very distantly related, too!” she laughs. “By marriage, not blood, so if you wanted to court Kendall you could,” she says, and winks at Stiles.

The thought of a relationship with this cold, sneering man makes Stiles’ insides recoil. “Ah, no thanks,” he says.

“Of course, your highness,” Kendall says, bowing his head.

 

* * *

 

Stiles’ days are filled with lessons, lessons, and more lessons. Countless numbers of advisors and tutors are brought in so he can be brought up to speed on all matters of politics, accounting, economics, agriculture, and the ins and outs of running a kingdom.

The best part is spending time with his father, though. As more of Stiles’ memories come back, it gets easier, and he enjoys hearing stories of his mother. It’s incredibly nice to have a family again.

The night of the ball approaches, and Stiles is pacing back and forth in his chambers, holding the gilded mask in his hands. It’s elaborate and he’s pretty sure it’s made with actual gold thread and beaded pearls and tiny sapphires. A swan, he supposes, glaring at his reflection. Fitting for the court’s idealized stories of his ugly duckling transformation making the rounds.

The cream-colored coat and blue cravat are hanging by his bed, ready for the evening. The coat is hemmed with pearls and more precious stones; it’s heavy and uncomfortable, and he isn’t looking forward to wearing it.

Stiles scowls, and his reflection scowls back. He doesn’t have to make an official appearance until after dinner, where he’s expected to make the welcoming speech.

He glances at the trunks filled with his old possessions standing in the corner of the room. Perfect. He can have some peace and quiet away from the advisors and maybe actually enjoy some of the ball before he’s expected to do princely things again.

The red brocaded coat and fox mask look simple next to his royal outfit, but Stiles dons them with glee and slips out the window.

 

* * *

 

The music has just started, soft and lilting. The great hall is filled with nobles in their finery, eagerly whispering to one another in excitement. Elaborate masks fill the room; Stiles slips among them, unseen. He heads for the refreshments table first, enjoying himself by eating his fill without having to resort to proper table manners. He stuffs his face and bobs his head to the music, watching the crowd.

A herald starts to announce guests. Ladies and lords and their holdings, and then a few knights…

“Scott?” Stiles gasps, rushing forward toward the regiment filling into the courtyard.

It is indeed Scott, wearing his dress armor and looking bemusedly around the palace, nudging his fellow knights and laughing.

Stiles runs at full speed and barely stops short of tackling his best friend. He comes to a stop, catching his breath. “Knight McCall,” he says, oddly formal, looking to the side and hoping no one will recognize him by voice. Probably not.

Scott’s face breaks out in a huge grin. “Stiles! I thought you’d be busy. I didn’t know if I’d get to see you!”

“Shh!” Stiles grabs Scott by the arm and drags through the vaulted pillars of the courtyard and out towards the gardens. Finally away from the crowd, he pulls Scott into a fierce hug. It’s a little difficult with the bulky armor, but he makes do.

Apparently Scott’s duties on the border are finished, and he’s just returned to the Capitol. Stiles would be delighted, if only he didn’t have to leave the country tomorrow.

It’s a relief to talk to Scott, and the story spills out of him in bits and pieces, and Stiles is just so _frustrated_ with the Derek situation, like they’ve finally agreed to start courting and everything was wonderful and they even kissed but Derek hasn’t responded to any of his letters and—

“Stiles.”

Scott grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around, pointing back towards the open courtyard, where guests are milling around; a few dancing, but most standing and watching the stairs to the great hall.

Stiles follows Scott’s outstretched finger and sees the man in the wolf mask, and his heart skips a beat.

“Didn’t you say Lord Hale was wearing a wolf mask at the last ball? So you’re both wearing the same masks as last time,” Scott muses. “It’s romantic, isn’t it? It’s what people do for missed connections.” He grins, nearly bouncing with excitement as he speaks, waggling his eyebrows at Stiles. “Oh! I see Lady Kira has just arrived, I believe I will ask her for a dance.” Scott winks. “Good luck.”

Scott dashes off before Stiles can grab onto him or hide behind him or ask him to go talk to Derek for him, and he’s left alone in the garden, staring into the courtyard.

Stiles takes a deep breath and steps forward.

Derek is indeed wearing the exact same silver-gray tailcoat and waistcoat, and the lovely wolf mask. He watches Stiles approach, his mouth under the mask falling open.

Stiles draws closer, wants to drown into the depths of Derek’s eyes, wants to ask him why he never wrote back, wants to kiss him senseless, wants so much.

“Lord Whimsy of Whimsington,” Derek says.

“Lord Hale,” Stiles says, delighted Derek remembered his alias. “Would you care to dance?”

Derek smiles and offers his hand.

The music swells, and they sweep across the dance floor in slow, graceful circles. Stiles forgets the crowd of people around them, all the worries he has about the impending move; knows just the way the edge of Derek’s mask hugs the curve of his cheek, the softness of his smile, the warmth of his touch, the weight of his hand on the small of his back.

“I missed you,” Stiles says, finally unable to hold back any longer.

“I’ve missed you as well,” Derek says.

“Why didn’t you write back?”

“I didn’t know what to say.” Derek looks down. “You’re a prince. It’s hardly my place to suggest that we continue our courtship.”

“But you want to?” Stiles asks, heart in his throat. The sudden hope that bursts through him feels like it might be too much.

Derek bites his lip and takes a deep breath. “I—”

The dance changes to a lively tune and Stiles has to keep up with the steps, forward and back, touching hands with Derek on the beat. It’s difficult to keep up conversation, so he tries to focus on the dance, on Derek.

The music picks up speed, and the song requires that partners change before ending with your first partner. It’s crowded, the courtyard, full of nobles and servants and Stiles can even see his advisors dancing with everyone. Anita is spinning around in the corner, laughing uproariously, and Stiles turns around to see Kendall next to him.

The next dance move requires they spin about each other, so they do, Kendall’s hands stiffly gripping Stiles’ fingers, and Stiles nods familiarly at Kendall before he realizes Kendall probably won’t recognize him.

Kendall smirks back at him, and there’s a flash of metal.

Several things happens at once.

Stiles leaps back in horror, panic starting to set in, his mind barely catching up to the current situation— _Kendall has a knife and he’s trying to kill me—_ he’s never been good at combat, at anything, he’s going to _die—_

The sharp blade plunging downwards—

A rustle of silver fabric, and Stiles is being pushed backwards—

He falls to the floor, a heavy weight upon him, his mask falls forward, obscuring his vision. Stiles yanks it off, breathing heavily.

“Derek,” he gasps. Blood seeps from Derek’s coat. “No, no, no—”

“It’s the prince!”

“Lord Hale just saved Prince Stiles!”

“An assassin!”

“The same assassin?”

“Didn’t Mage Stilinski— Prince Stiles save Lord Hale at the _last_ ball?”

Stiles ignores the whispers. Vaguely he’s aware that more and more people are crowding around them, and that guards have seized Kendall by the arms, and Kendall is screaming and babbling, “The crown should have been mine, mine!”

Derek is breathing, chest rising and falling shallowly. The bright bloom of blood seeping from Derek’s abdomen looks like a mortal wound at first glance, but Stiles takes a moment to assess; now, looking closer, the gash is on his side, missing the vital organs. The way the crimson stain looks against the silver of Derek’s coat makes it look worse than it is. Stiles applies pressure with his hands, looking up at the crowd. Queen Lydia and Knight Commander Allison are coming this way, flanked by more courtiers and also in the distance, Stiles recognizes the court physician. Help is on the way. The culprit has been caught.

Oh, Derek.

Stiles cradles him close, listening to him breathe, not caring what this looks like.

Finally Derek opens his eyes and Stiles exhales in relief. Derek tries to pull himself to a sitting position, but mostly ends up even more in Stiles’ lap. Stiles doesn’t mind.

“Stiles,” Derek gasps, reaching out to touch Stiles’ cheek. “Are you unharmed?”

“I am quite well,” Stiles says, resisting the urge to laugh.

“Good,” Derek says, with some effort.

“We were in the middle of something,” Stiles says. “I asked you, if you still wanted to court me. You should know that the recent events have changed nothing; I still want everything with you, courtship, a future together, here or in Thayria, it doesn’t matter to me. I want to be with your intended, Derek. If you’ll have me.”

Derek’s eyes soften with affection. “Of course.”

“I really want to kiss you now, but it wouldn’t be proper,” Stiles whispers.

“Fuck proper,” Derek says, seizing his chin and pulling him downward into a kiss.

 

* * *

 

Stiles does not leave for Thayria the next day.

King John and most of his retinue depart, and Stiles is to join them in a month’s time. He’s left plenty of reading about Thayria agriculture from his advisors, and correspondence he needs to keep up with.

There are trials to sort out, and talk of Kendall’s sentence. Apparently he had known Stiles was alive the whole time; he’d remembered Queen Claudia’s escape and knew they were living in Kaethur. But he was next in line for the throne, and had kept quiet until King John had gone searching for Stiles, and then put his plan in action. After his first assassination attempt, Kendall ran out of the _Amytheused_ poison and thought he would strike again at the ball.

Stiles returns to Hale Manor, with a few Thayria knights and other members of the court. It’s strange, how he has his own retinue now.

The Senate has also appointed Derek as a diplomat and travel to Thayria and work on trade agreements there. When Derek told him, Stiles had laughed because that morning Derek had intended to go and resign.

“It’s like they knew I was going to quit,” Derek muttered.

“More like follow me wherever I go,” Stiles teased, and Derek’s blush confirmed his theory. “They might as well keep you on and not have to pay another Senator to travel to Thayria, since you’re coming with me anyway.”

With the best healing magic at his disposal, Derek recovers from his wounds quickly. Within a week, he’s back on his feet, going for long walks in the gardens with Stiles and even working in his greenhouse. Stiles and Derek settle into a comfortable routine, almost domestic, eating breakfast together each morning and then the two of them working on their respective affairs throughout the day, and taking time together in the afternoons and evenings as a chaperone follows them on their outings. Before Stiles knows it, a month has passed and they’re set to depart for Thayria within a few days.

This might be the last time they have the opportunity to go riding together. The weather is lovely, and Stiles is standing impatiently at the stables. “Derek! What on earth could be keeping you— you’re the one who wanted to go riding!”

“I know, I know, but your lily needs specific watering and I didn’t trust anyone else to do it.” Derek brushes off soil off the knees of his breeches. “I had to re-pot it to get it ready for travel.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, pleased.

They saddle up their horses. Joy is slow today, ambling after Orliane and getting distracted easily.

“C’mon, girl,” Stiles says, nudging her with his foot.

“It’s your fault,” Derek says, laughing. “I know you were feeding her treats every night, did you know we had to lower her rations because you fed her so much?”

Stiles pats Joy’s neck. “Poor baby, they’re not giving you enough food, that’s why you don’t have enough energy.”

Joy whuffs, and starts off in a trot.

Derek guides Orliane into a gallop, and Joy follows right after.

They ride through the fields to the edge of Derek’s vast estate and stop in the same meadow by the lake they once had a picnic in, long ago.

The horses graze around them, and Stiles lays out on the blanket, pulling Derek towards him. He cards his fingers through Derek’s hair, looking up at the sky. He remembers how nervous he was last time, thinking that they were married, what Derek might expect of him, how thrilling it was to lay here so intimately with him.

Stiles’ tailcoat is lying in the grass atop Derek’s where they’d shucked them in the heat. His own shirt is undone, cravat strewn carelessly atop the picnic basket. Derek’s shirt is unbuttoned to the waist, the ends flapping wildly in the breeze, and Stiles shivers, looking at the expanse of bare skin, the hair on Derek’s chest.

“I’m just fixing my shirt,” Derek says, embarrassed, sitting up and starting to rebutton it. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Stiles asks mischievously.

Derek leans forward and kisses him, soft at first, and then like a question, dragging his tongue slowly across Stiles’ bottom lip. Stiles groans, letting his mouth fall open. He deepens the kiss eagerly, runs his hands down Derek’s chest and the hard planes of his stomach.

“Stiles.” Derek pulls back, panting. He grabs Stiles’ hands and laces their fingers together, but they’re hovering still, just above the hot skin before Derek’s breeches.

“You kissed me first,” Stiles says. His heart is racing, and Derek’s eyes are whirlpools of color that he wants to get lost in. There’s a charge in the air that has nothing to do with magic, or maybe it does, magic of a different kind entirely.

Derek’s staring at him, eyes dark with desire, and Stiles wants to move closer, wants many things, most of all wants Derek to tell him what he wants.

“I did, but you… I…” Derek’s cheeks are aflame.

Stiles grins. “There isn’t anyone here. We don’t even have to have a chaperone today because I’m a prince and I can do what I want.” It had actually had been three weeks of Stiles arguing passionately with all his advisors about how responsible he was, extolling endlessly about Derek’s character and eventually his advisors did agree that _why yes, Lord Hale is a suitable match for the crown prince of Thayria, if you were actually betrothed that is..._

“Yes, you’re a prince.” Derek bites his lip, looking at something over Stiles’ shoulder.

“And I want you,” Stiles says, squeezing Derek’s hands.

Derek’s eyes soften, and Stiles takes it as cue that their introspective time is over and they can kiss again. With Stiles’ busy schedule he hasn’t had a moment like this with Derek where they’ve actually been alone— he knows the servants would gossip if he spent too long in Derek’s rooms or Derek in his.

In fact, they may not get another chance for a long while to be alone like this again.

Stiles slowly draws out of the kiss and rests his forehead against Derek’s own, and Derek sighs contentedly.

Stiles had a plan, a perfect moment he had been looking for, but as soon as they arrive back at the manor, he knows either him or Derek will get caught up with advisors wanting to talk about the upcoming preparations. They’ll be leaving for Thayria and then there won’t be any time at all.

“Derek,” Stiles says, slowly. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Derek sits up a little straighter, and he brings their joined hands to his lips, kissing the back of Stiles’ hand softly. “I know,” he says. “If you have found a better match, you should take it. I am grateful for any time you have given me.”

Stiles stares a little and shakes Derek’s hands loose so he can cup Derek’s chin firmly and look him in the eye. “No, that’s not it,” he says. Stiles bites his lip— this would be so much easier if he hadn’t left the damn ring in his chambers. “I wanted to know if you— just—”

Derek blinks, confused.

“Would you marry me?” Stiles blurts out. “I love you, and I’ve loved you for a long time, and when I woke up and thought we were married I thought it was a dream, a lovely one, and then everything else that happened, and you were so brave and ridiculous and I want to make this dream come true.”

“Stiles,” Derek says. He’s got a stunned, shocked look in his eyes.

Stiles swears his heart stops beating in the long moment of silence before Derek finally moves, closing his eyes and leaning into Stiles’ touch. He opens his eyes and looks at Stiles warmly; his eyes crinkle a bit at the corners before he smiles, and he says, “Of course.”

Stiles exhales in relief before leaning in; they don’t kiss, but he just revels in the closeness of the touch, the warmth of Derek’s breath.

“I would gladly make this dream real with you, Stiles,” Derek whispers. “Every day. For the rest of my life.”

Stiles does kiss him this time, overwhelmed by the sweetness of Derek’s mouth, exhilarated about the possibility of their future together, that he’ll have every morning with Derek, every evening, and Derek’s strong hands are stroking his back, and—

The smell of sweet smoke pulls him out of reverie, and Derek is _laughing._

“What is it?”

Derek gestures around them, and at least a dozen of the flowers have sparked and burst into flame, smoke wafting from the ground. “We’ll have to fireproof the bedroom,” Derek says, his eyes alight in mischief.

“I’ll have you know that Thayrian architecture uses entirely stone and we’ll be perfectly fine,” Stiles retorts. “And besides, that was an accident. I have excellent control over my magic, I was just extremely _happy—”_

“I know, I know,” Derek says fondly. “I meant the manor bedroom.”

It takes Stiles a minute to understand Derek’s meaning, and then he gasps, standing to his feet. He grabs Derek by the hand and pulls him up as well. “What are we doing still here? Let’s go!”

Orliane and Joy are a bit of a ways away, grazing and oblivious to Stiles waving and shouting and rushing towards them. Stiles runs down the hill, crushing wildflowers in his wake. He can hear Derek behind him, laughing, and Stiles missteps and trips over a rock, falling headfirst into the flowers.

Derek catches him and the momentum pulls the two of them down, and they tumble down the hill. All Stiles can see is Derek’s face lit with joy, and blooms of color fall around them, petals scattering to the wind.

Stiles lands on his back, and Derek is sprawled out atop him, indecently so. Stiles blushes, thinking of Derek’s proposition and wonders if he were serious, or if he were merely teasing. “You could ravish me here,” Stiles suggests boldly.

Derek kisses him, a slow, devouring kiss that Stiles wants to drown in. “I could,” Derek muses.

They’re chest to chest, and Stiles is very aware of the intimacy of the position, the warmth of Derek’s body, and he can think of nothing else but them making love right here in the field.

Derek winks and stands up. “But then you wouldn’t have anything to look forward to on our wedding night.” Before Stiles can say anything, Derek starts off at a run for the horses. “Race you back to the stables!” Derek calls over his shoulder.

“I love that man,” Stiles says, to no one in particular, and then he laughs and starts running after him.

  


 

 

**THE END**

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lydia and Allison are inspired by [this lovely fic and artwork](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5895304) and M and Leda were lovely enough to borrow them and set this fic alongside theirs. 
> 
> Rebloggable art post is here!
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can find me on [tumblr](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/bleep0bleep) if you wanna say hi.


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